THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 


'The  one  excuse  and  breath  of  art  —  charm."  —  Stevenson. 


The  Technique  of 
Fiction  Writing 

By 
ROBERT  SAUNDERS  DOWST 


JAMES  KNAPP  REEVE 

PUBLISHER 
FRANKLIN,  OHIO 


(A  I 


Copyright-  1918 
The  Editor  Company 


Copyright,  1921 
James  Knapp  Reeve 


TO 
C.  K.  R.  D. 


M188402 


PREFACE 

Many  books  have  been  written  on  fiction  technique , 
and  the  chief  excuse  for  the  present  addition  to  the 
number  is  the  complexity  of  the  subject.  Its  range  is 
so  wide,  it  calls  for  so  many  and  so  different  capacities 
in  one  attempting  to  discuss  it,  that  a  new  work  has 
more  than  a  chance  to  meet  at  least  two  or  three  de- 
ficiences  in  all  other  treatments. 

I  believe  that  the  chief  deficiency  in  most  works 
on  fiction  technique  is  that  the  author  unconsciously  has 
slipped  from  the  viewpoint  of  a  writer  of  a  story  to 
that  of  a  reader.  Now  a  reader  without  intention  to 
try  his  own  hand  at  the  game  is  not  playing  fair  in 
studying  technique,  and  a  book  on  technique  has  no 
business  to  entertain  him.  Accordingly,  I  have  striven 
to  keep  to  the  viewpoint  of  one  who  seeks  to  learn  how 
to  write  stories,  and  have  made  no  attempt  to  analyze 
the  work  of  masters  of  fiction  for  the  sake  of  the 
analysis  alone.  Such  analysis  is  interesting  to  make, 
and  also  interesting  to  read,  but  it  is  not  directly  profit- 
able to  the  writer.  It  is  indirectly  profitable,  of  course, 
but  it  will  give  very  little  direct  aid  to  one  who  has  a 
definite  story  idea  and  wishes  to  be  told  the  things  he 
must  consider  in  developing  it  and  writing  the  story, 
or  to  one  who  wishes  to  be  told  roughly  how  he  should 
go  about  the  business  of  finding  real  stories.  In  fact, 
I  believe  that  discussion  and  analysis  of  perfect  work 
has  a  tendency  to  chill  the  enthusiasm  of  the  beginning 

7 


8  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

writer.  What  he  chiefly  needs  is  to  be  told  the  consid- 
erations he  must  hold  in  mind  in  conceiving,  develop- 
ing, and  writing  a  story.  The  rest  lies  with  his  own 
abilities  and  capacities  to  work  intelligently  and  to  take 
pains. 

Therefore  the  first  part  of  this  book  takes  up  the 
problems  of  technique  in  the  order  in  which  they  pre- 
sent themselves  to  the  writer.  Beginning  with  mat- 
ters of  conception,  the  discussion  passes  to  matters  of 
construction  and  development,  and  finally  to  matters 
of  execution,  or  rather  the  writing  of  a  story  consid- 
ered as  a  bare  chain  of  events.  Then  the  matters  of 
description,  dialogue,  the  portrayal  of  character,  and 
the  precipitation  of  atmosphere  are  discussed,  and 
lastly  the  short  story  and  novel,  as  distinct  forms,  are 
taken  up. 

Usually  the  propositions  necessary  to  be  laid 
down  require  no  demonstration;  they  are  self-evident. 
That  is  why  a  book  on  technique  for  the  writer  need 
not  indulge  in  fine-spun  analysis  of  perfect  work. 
Where  analysis  will  lend  point  to  the  abstract  state- 
ment, I  have  made  it,  but  my  constant  aim  has  been 
not  to  depart  from  the  viewpoint  that  the  reader  has  in 
mind  some  idea  of  his  own  and  wishes  to  be  told  how 
to  handle  it.  Unquestionably  literary  dissection  is  use- 
ful in  that  it  gives  the  beginning  writer  familiarity 
with  the  terminology  and  processes  of  the  art,  but  the 
main  object  of  a  book  on  technique  is  to  place  the 
results  of  analysis,  directly  stated,  in  logical  sequence. 

I  will  note  one  other  matter.  A  great  part  of  the 
technique  of  fiction  writing  concerns  matters  of  con- 
ception and  development  which  are  preliminary  to 
actual  writing.  In  fact  they  are  essentially  and  pecu- 
liarly the  technique  of  fiction.  The  story  that  is  not 
a  justly  ordered  whole,  with  each  part  in  its  due  place 
and  no  part  omitted,  cannot  have  full  effect,  however 


PREFACE  9 

great  the  strictly  executive  powers  of  its  writer.  Ver- 
bally faultless  telling  will  not  save  a  story  which  is  not 
logically  built  up  and  developed,  either  before  writing 
or  in  the  process  of  writing.  The  art  of  telling  a  story 
is  largely  the  art  of  justly  manipulating  its  elements. 
The  art  of  telling  it  with  verbal  perfection  is  not  so 
much  a  part  of  the  strict  technique  of  fiction  writing 
as  it  is  of  the  general  technique  of  writing.  Therefore 
1  have  made  little  attempt  to  discuss  the  general  art 
of  using  words.  For  assistance  in  studying  the  art  of 
expression  the  reader  should  turn  to  a  work  on  rhetoric. 
The  subject  is  too  inclusive  for  adequate  treatment 
here.  Moreover,  it  is  debatable  whether  the  art  of 
verbal  expression  can  be  studied  objectively  with  any 
great  profit.  But  the  art  of  putting  a  story  together 
can  be  studied  objectively  with  profit,  and  its  princi- 
ples are  subject  to  direct  statement. 

I  desire  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  Mr. 
William  R.  Kane,  of  The  Editor  Magazine,  for  much 
helpful  criticism  and  many  valuable  suggestions. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Introduction    13 

I.     The  Writer  Himself 22 

II.     The  Choice  of  Matter 30 

III.  Conceptive  Technique :  Story  Types 37 

IV.  Conceptive  Technique :  Plot  and  Situation  48 
.  V.     Constructive  Technique  of  Narration.  ...  64 

VI.     Executive  Technique  of  Narration 80 

VII.     Executive  Technique  of  Narration 

(Continued)   95 

VIII.     Description 107 

IX.     Speech 121 

X.     Portrayal  of  Character 136 

XI.     Atmosphere   152 

XII.     The  Short  Story 165 

XIII.  The  Novel   182 

XIV.  Conclusion 197 

Appendix 209 


INTRODUCTION 


"A  work  of  art  is  first  cloudily  conceived  in  the 
mind;  during  the  period  of  gestation  it  stands  more 
clearly  forward  from  these  swaddling  mists,  puts  on 
expressive  lineaments,  and  becomes  at  length  that  most 
faultless,  but  also,  alas!  that  incommunicable  product 
of  the  human  mind,  a  perfected  design.  On  the  ap- 
proach to  execution  all  is  changed.  The  artist  must 
now  step  down,  don  his  working  clothes,  and  become 
the  artisan.  He  now  resolutely  commits  his  airy  con- 
ception, his  delicate  Ariel,  to  the  touch  of  matter;  he 
must  decide,  almost  in  a  breath,  the  scale,  the  style, 
the  spirit,  and  the  particularity  of  execution  of  his 
whole  design." 

Thus  Stevenson,  in  "A  Note  on  Realism,"  takes  it 
for  granted  that  the  artist  in  pigments,  stone,  or  words 
cannot  reproduce  until  he  first  has  produced,  cannot 
show  a  perfect  work  unless  he  paints,  builds,  or  writes 
along  the  lines  of  a  perfected  design. 

One  cannot  dabble  long  at  architecture  or  the 
graphic  arts  without  gaining  keen  realization  of  the 
fact  that  conception  in  its  elaborative  aspects  is  as 
much  a  part  and  phase  of  technique  as  the  executive 
handling  of  materials.  But  the  art  of  literature,  and, 
more  narrowly,  the  art  of  fiction,  deal  with  materials 
other  than  those  employed  in  the  other  arts;  words, 
not  colors  or  marble,  nor  yet  sounds,  are  the  resource 
of  the  story  teller  to  precipitate  his  conception  in  en- 

13 


14  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

during  form ;  and  words  are  at  once  frank  and  mysteri- 
ous things.  Their  primary  office  is  to  forward  the  com- 
mon business  of  life ;  each  has  some  meaning  in  itself, 
more  or  less  definite.  It  results  that  the  writer  of  a 
story  who  sets  out  with  only  the  merest  glimmering  of 
what  he  means  to  do  in  mind  can  produce  a  superficially 
plausible  work,  a  work  not  too  obviously  misshapen,  a 
work  that  means  something,  at  any  rate,  although  his 
failure  to  trace  a  design  to  guide  his  hand  almost  in- 
evitably will  prohibit  his  giving  the  basic  conception 
most  effective  expression.  And,  since  almost  any 
sequence  of  words  has  some  significance,  it  also  results 
that  the  writer  of  fiction  who  works  at  haphazard  may 
fail  to  discover  that  failure  in  his  work  as  a  whole  is 
due  to  lack  of  planning  rather  than  to  defective  exe- 
cution. The  mere  grammatical  coherence  of  a  fiction- 
ally slipshod  piece  of  work  is  a  shield  between  its 
writer's  inquiring  eye  and  its  essential  defects. 

The  art  of  fiction  is  the  art  both  of  the  tale  and  of 
the  story,  fictions  that  differ  radically.  Their  most 
striking  difference  is  stated  in  the  following  pages; 
here  I  can  only  remark  broadly  that  the  tale  is  episodal, 
consisting  of  a  fortuitous  series  of  incidents  without 
essential  connection  or  relation  except  that  they  all 
happened  to  happen  to  the  characters,  while  the  story 
is  a  whole  in  that  each  incident  functions  in  the  develop- 
ment of  a  plot  or  dramatic  problem.  If  prevision  and 
full  elaboration  of  his  basic  idea  are  essential  to  the 
writer  of  a  tale,  they  are  doubly  essential  to  the  writer 
of  a  story,  simply  because  a  story  is  a  whole  and  the 
result  of  careful  co-ordination  of  parts.  Even  if  the 
writer  of  some  particular  story  has  not  worked  along 
the  lines  of  a  fully  elaborated  design,  the  story  actually 
will  manifest  co-ordination  of  parts  or  else  be  worth- 
less. A  story  is  more  than  a  series  of  incidents ;  it  is 
a  series  of  incidents  significant  in  relation  to  character. 


INTRODUCTION  15 

Its  writer  cannot  set  to  work  with  an  eye  solely  to  the 
physical  spectacle  and  follow  after  with  his  pen;  he 
must  prepare  his  people  as  well  as  the  events,  a  task 
of  cunning  calculation.  He  must  have  an  eye  to  many 
other  matters,  but  this  is  not  the  place  to  state  them. 
The  matter  of  character  is  the  matter  significant  here, 
because  the  whole  difference  between  tale  and  story 
is  made  by  the  presence  or  absence  of  relation  between 
events  and  personality.  And  it  is  certain  that  the 
writer  of  a  story  cannot  hope  to  do  the  best  work  if  he 
postpones  until  the  moment  of  actual  writing  the  task 
of  moulding  and  elaborating  his  basic  idea  with  a  view 
to  giving  it  maximum  effect.  The  task  to  express  per- 
fectly, in  a  verbal  sense,  is  difficult  enough  to  claim  the 
undivided  attention  of  the  ablest  artist,  but  undivided 
attention  cannot  be  given  the  matter  of  verbal  expres- 
sion by  a  writer  who  shapes  his  substance  and  picks 
his  words  at  one  and  the  same  time.  Either  word  or 
substance  must  suffer. 

Accordingly,  to  emphasize  the  necessity  that  the 
writer  of  fiction  give  full  shape  and  development  to  his 
design  before  writing,  I  have  stated  the  necessity  and 
discussed  technique  itself  under  two  heads,  conceptive 
or  constructive  technique  and  executive  technique.  To 
have  carried  this  division  rigorously  through  the  whole 
book  would  have  been  neither  possible  nor  profitable, 
for  it  would  have  involved  much  repetition  and  confu- 
sion, but  the  various  items  of  technique  are  either 
largely  conceptive  and  constructive  or  largely  executive, 
and  the  best  place  to  discuss  each  has  not  been  difficult 
to  determine.  It  was  only  necessary  to  contemplate 
the  actual  process  of  conceiving,  developing,  arid  writ- 
ing a  story,  and  to  take  up  in  their  order  the  problems 
that  confront  a  writer  of  fiction.  The  only  matter 
which  found  no  natural  place,  so  approached,  was  that 
of  characterization,  which  is  almost  equally  a  matter 


16  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

of  construction  and  of  execution,  so  that  discussion  of  it 
has  been  broken  up  to  some  extent. 

This  approach  to  technique  is  the  natural  ap- 
proach, and  has  been  adopted  for  that  reason.  The 
more  naturally  and  easily  any  study  can  be  conducted, 
the  greater  the  results  that  will  be  achieved.  But 
there  is  a  more  immediate  reason  for  taking  up  the 
phases  of  technique  in  the  order  in  which  they  present 
themselves  to  a  writer  of  fiction,  thereby  emphasizing 
the  existence  and  importance  of  the  constructive  phas- 
es of  technique.  Briefly,  it  is  that  construction  is  at 
once  easier  and  more  important  to  learn  than  execution. 
Perhaps  a  little  argument  in  support  of  the  statement 
is  called  for. 

It  will  not  be  questioned  seriously  that  it  is  easier 
to  learn  the  main  principles  of  construction  than  it  is 
to  learn  or  discover  how  to  write  with  finish  and  power. 
It  is  entirely  possible  to  state  abstractly  the  principles 
of  construction,  to  grasp  their  reasons  and  implications 
from  abstract  statement,  and  to  apply  them  by  a  mere 
act  of  the  intelligence  in  writing  any  story.  But  it  is 
entirely  impossible  to  state  abstractly  the  principles  of 
writing  with  finish  and  power,  or  to  learn  to  write  so 
from  any  mere  discussion  of  the  matter.  The  condition 
is  illustrated  by  almost  any  treatise  on  rhetoric, 
where  half  the  text  will  be  made  up  of  examples  tran- 
scribed to  lend  some  weight  to  the  obviously — and 
necessarily — inadequate  discussion.  How  to  write  with 
finish  and  power  can  be  learned  only  by  long  continued 
and  intelligent  practice,  if  it  can  be  learned  at  all.  Of 
course,  this  is  not  to  say  that  constant  practice  is  not 
necessary  to  gain  any  real  facility  and  adequacy  in  ap- 
plying the  principles  of  construction. 

The  argument  of  the  last  paragraph  is  clinched  by 
the  fact  that  of  a  thousand  stories,  all  of  which  are  well 
constructed  and  put  together,  only  a  few  or  perhaps 


INTRODUCTION  17 

none  will  be  written  with  any  approach  to  real  literary 
power,  in  the  verbal  sense.  Of  all  the  writers  of  lo-day 
who  can  put  together  a  story  in  workmanlike  fashion 
how  many  have  the  power  of  the  telling  word?  how 
many  have  even  a  style? 

I  have  yet  to  substantiate  the  assertion  that  con- 
struction is  more  important  for  the  writer  of  fiction  to 
learn  than  execution,  but  the  task  is  easy.  In  the  last 
analysis,  the  power  of  a  story,  that  is,  its  power  to 
interest,  depends  upon  its  matter,  the  spectacle  it  pre- 
sents. If  the  whole  conception  is  justly  elaborated  and 
properly  put  together,  it  will  have  very  nearly  full 
effect,  even  though  its  writer  does  not  give  it  perfect 
verbal  expression,  provided  the  verbal  precipitation  of 
the  thing  is  not  too  shamelessly  inadequate.  Perfect 
verbal  expression  is  necessary  to  give  a  properly  con- 
structed story  maximum  effect ;  it  is  not  necessary  to 
give  it  approximate  effect.  But  perfect  verbal  expres- 
sion will  not  save  a  story  that  is  misshapen  and  dis- 
torted through  lack  of  proper  construction. 

These  considerations  strongly  urge  the  writer  of 
fiction  to  master  the  principles  of  constructing  a  story 
before  he  frets  about  the  nuances  of  expression,  and 
just  as  strongly  they  impose  upon  a  book  on  tech- 
nique the  obligation  to  discuss  matters  of  construc- 
tion at  length  and  also  to  discuss  them  as  such.  The 
book  which  does  not  explicitly  insist  that  certain  mat- 
ters are  matters  of  construction,  therefore  to  be  per- 
formed before  writing,  is  very  apt  to  mislead.  It  is  a 
defect  from  which  too  many  books  on  fiction  technique 
are  not  free,  and  one  that  I  have  tried  to  avoid. 

How  comprehensive  and  inclusive  are  the  princi- 
ples of  construction  the  first  half  of  this  book  attempts 
to  show.  Here  it  is  enough  to  state  that  they  embrace 
matters  so  different  as  the  manipulation  of  possible 
incidents  in  the  interest  of  climax,  and  the  preparation 
2 


18  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

or  building  up  of  the  people  of  a  story  that  its  situa- 
tions may  have  real  dramatic  value  for  a  reader.  The 
writer  of  fiction  who  merely  writes  cannot  hope  to 
provide  by  any  instinct  for  these  and  the  other  matters 
of  construction,  and  no  power  in  his  words  can  fortify 
essential  weakness  in  his  matter.  Style,  literary 
power,  the  right  word  in  the  right  place — all  will  resist 
the  tooth  of  time,  but  no  one  will  preserve  a  story  from 
the  contagion  of  decay  at  the  heart.  Indeed,  in  the 
juster  sense,  a  shapely  design  is  the  necessary  founda- 
tion or  basis  for  perfect  writing,  which  is  no  mere 
varnish. 

In  this  present  era  of  magazine  literature  the 
chances  are  that  nine  out  of  ten  actual  or  prospective 
writers  of  fiction  who  take  up  a  book  on  technique  for 
serious  study  will  do  so  with  an  eye  to  the  short  story. 
And  since  this  book  is  for  the  practitioner  of  the  art, 
not  for  the  mere  reader  of  fiction,  I  have  felt  myself 
under  obligation  to  discuss  the  short  story  and  its 
peculiar  technique  with  some  approach  to  adequacy. 
Statement  of  the  way  the  short  story  has  been  ap- 
proached may  serve  to  align  the  reader's  mind  with  the 
argument. 

In  the  first  place,  the  short  story  is  yet  a  story,  a 
fiction,  so  that  the  general  technique  of  fiction  is  applic- 
able to  it,  with  suitable  modifications  here  and  there. 
In  the  second  place,  the  short  story  is  a  distinct  type 
of  fiction  in  that  it  embodies  a  plot  or  dramatic  prob- 
lem and  is  brief  enough  to  read  at  one  not  very  pro- 
longed sitting.  It  is  at  once  slighter  and  more  pointed 
or  direct  than  the  long  story  of  plot,  the  novel  or 
romance.  The  result  is  that  all  its  processes,  particu- 
larly the  process  of  characterization,  must  be  conducted 
in  a  fashion  more  swift  and  summary  than  in  a  long 
story,  and  the  difference  is  the  whole  of  the  difference 
in  the  technique  of  the  two  forms. 


INTRODUCTION  19 

Unfortunately,  a  discussion  of  the  peculiar  tech- 
nique of  the  short  story  cannot  confine  itself  to  this 
difference  without  failing  to  clear  away  the  many  mis- 
conceptions that  becloud  the  subject.  A  good  deal  has 
been  written  on  the  short  story,  and,  since  there  is 
really  not  very  much  to  say,  a  good  many  writers  have 
been  led  into  nonsense.  With  so  much  misconception 
in  the  air,  I  have  felt  that  it  would  be  useful  to  state 
a  tenable  theory  of  the  short  story,  and  have  attempted 
to  do  so  in  the  chapter  on  the  form.  The  matter  will  be 
found  there  and  cannot  be  reproduced  here,  but  brief 
statement  of  the  argument  will  complete  the  foretaste 
of  the  boqk. 

Since  the  short  story  is  a  story,  at  least,  it  may 
be  divided  and  classified,  like  all  stories,  into  stories  of 
character,  stories  of  complication  of  incident,  and 
stories  of  atmosphere,  that  is,  into  stories  which  em- 
phasize or  stress  the  element  of  personality,  the  ele- 
ment of  incident,  or  the  element  of  setting.  But  the 
truly  significant  division  of  the  short  story  into  types, 
the  division  which  it  will  be  most  directly  profitable 
for  the  writer  of  fiction  to  realize,  is  twofold,  not 
triplicate,  and  is  the  division  into  the  dramatic  short 
story  and  the  short  story  of  atmosphere  or  unity  of 
emotional  effect  on  a  reader. 

These  two  types  are  as  different  as  black  and 
white,  and  the  misconception  noted  above  consists  in 
confusing  them.  The  short  story  of  atmosphere  is 
Poe's  sort  of  story ;  he  said  something  definite  and  true 
about  his  peculiar  art;  but  later  writers,  critics  rather, 
have  padded  and  distorted  his  words  to  cover  the  whole 
field  of  the  short  story.  The  general  result  is  much 
printed  folly,  and  the  specific  result  for  the  short 
story  writer  is  that  he  is  continually  urged,  com- 
manded, entreated,  and  advised  to  invest  his  work  with 
some  mysterious  "unity."  The  advice  is  sound  if  the 


20  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

short  story  of  atmosphere,  the  short  story  of  unity  or 
totality  of  emotional  effect,  is  meant;  the  short  story 
of  atmosphere  is  a  mysterious  and  subtle  unity  in  that 
its  people  and  happenings  are  curiously  of  a  piece  with 
its  setting,  serving  to  deepen  or  intensify  the  emotional 
effect  of  the  setting  on  a  reader.  But,  applied  to  the 
dramatic  short  story,  the  advice  is  unsound,  for  the 
dramatic  short  story  may  and  usually  does  involve 
much  diversity  and  contrast  in  its  three  elements  of 
people,  events,  and  setting.  The  only  sense  in  which  it 
can  be  said  to  be  a  unity  is  that  it  is  verbally  coherent, 
a  single  story.  The  single  story  may  involve  radically 
different  people,  happenings,  and  scenes. 

The  positive  evil  tendency  in  telling  the  short  story 
writer  to  seek  to  invest  his  work  with  "unity"  is  that 
if  he  follows  the  advice  his  material  will  be  restricted, 
and  he  will  write  stories  too  simple  really  to  interest, 
apart  from  the  appeal  of  their  characters.  And  this 
point  of  interest  brings  up  another  aspect  of  this  book 
which  I  would  mention. 

The  last  chapter  states  a  general  theory  or  philo- 
sophy of  fiction  which  it  will  prove  most  profitable  for 
the  writer  of  fiction  to  grasp,  however  imperfectly  I 
may  have  stated  it.  The  theory  is  not  profound,  in  the 
sense  that  it  is  mysterious,  being  merely  the  theory 
which  is  implied  in  the  content  and  aim  of  the  art 
of  fiction  itself.  The  content  of  fiction  is  man  and  what 
he  may  possibly  or  even  conceivably  experience;  the 
aim  of  fiction  is  to  interest,  in  Stevenson's  words,  "the 
one  excuse  and  breath  of  art — charm."  How  much  is 
implied  in  the  content  and  aim  of  fiction  I  have  tried  to 
show  in  my  closing  pages,  but  the  theory  there  stated 
is  the  guiding  principle  of  the  whole  book,  and  any 
value  it  may  have  derives  from  such  unforced  handling 
oi  the  subject.  Apart  from  the  merit  of  my  own  work, 
one  thing  at  least  is  certain.  If  commentators  on  the 


INTRODUCTION  21 

art  of  fiction  generally  would  deal  less  in  "isms"  and 
seek  less  to  display  their  profundity  and  critical 
acumen,  the  actual  writer  of  fiction  might  read  them 
with  some  profit.  As  it  is,  the  greatest  single  danger 
threatening  the  practitioner  of  the  art  is  that  his  eager- 
ness for  all  that  pertains  even  remotely  to  his  trade 
may  lead  him  to  take  seriously  the  empty  thunders  of 
the  schools  and  to  forget  that  his  business  is  to  inter- 
est and  captivate  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith,  simply  that. 

To  sum  up,  my  desire  has  been  to  write  a  book 
that  would  be  of  some  practical  use,  at  least  practically 
suggestive  to  the  writer  of  fiction;  therefore  the  only 
natural  way  to  approach  technique  has  been  adopted, 
and  I  have  indulged  in  analysis  only  when  the  analysis 
\vould  be  useful  in  itself  or  would  serve  to  clear  away 
misconception.  In  other  words,  the  book  has  been 
written  strictly  for  the  writer,  not  the  reader  of  fiction, 
and  that  implies  much. 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  WRITER  HIMSELF 

Critical  Faculty — Cultivation  of  Genius — Observation  and  In- 
formation— Open-mindedness — Attitude  Toward  Life — Pre- 
judice and  Provincialism — The  Social  Question — Reading — 
Imagination. 

Accessible  as  are  the  data  of  the  fiction  writer, 
the  facts  and  possibilities  of  life,  their  very  accessibility 
places  him  under  strict  necessity  to  sift  the  useful  from 
the  useless  in  search  for  the  pregnant  theme.  For  if 
life  presents  a  multiplicity  of  events  to  the  writer, 
from  which  he  may  select  some  sort  of  story  with  little 
labor  to  himself,  life  also  presents  the  same  multi- 
plicity of  events  to  the  reader,  who  can  see  the  obvious 
as  well  as  the  lazy  writer,  and  who  will  not  be  pleased 
with  a  narration  of  which  he  has  the  beginning-,  middle, 
and  end  by  heart.  A  tale  which  does  not  interest  fails 
essentially,  and  novelty,  in  the  undebased  sense  of  the 
word,  is  the  root  of  interest.  Therefore  the  writer  of 
fiction  who  takes  himself  and  his  art  seriously  must 
develop  the  open  and  penetrating  eye  and  the  faculty 
of  just  selection.  All  is  not  gold  that  glitters,  a  fact 
that  too  often  becomes  painfully  evident  only  when 
some  tale  discovered  with  joy  and  developed  with  eager- 
ness lies  coldly  spread  upon  paper.  The  beginner  who 
will  approach  his  own  conceptions  in  a  spirit  of  un- 
biased criticism  and  estimation  before  determining  to 
set  them  down  will  save  himself  useless  labor,  much 

22 


THE  WRITER  HIMSELF  23 

postage,  ^and  many  secret  tears.  Half  of  the  essen- 
tially feeble  work  produced  that  has  not  a  chance  of 
getting  published  is  the  result  of  the  writer's  falling  in 
love  with  his  own  idea  simply  because  it  is  his  own  idea. 
The  defect  is  in  conception  rather  than  in  execution, 
and  a  matter  of  first  importance  to  the  writer  is  to  de- 
velop the  faculty  of  estimating  his  unelaborated  ideas. 

Unquestionably  this  faculty  can  be  developed.  The 
struggle  for  its  development  is  half  over,  in  a  practical 
sense,  when  the  writer  comes  to  judge  his  concepts 
at  all  before  writing,  when  he  wins  free  of  the  habit 
of  writing  just  to  be  writing,  and  of  choosing  to  work 
on  a  particular  tale  because  it  is  the  best  he  can 
squeeze  from  his  brains  at  the  particular  moment, 
rather  than  because  it  is  absolutely  good  and  he  knows 
it  to  be  absolutely  good. 

Unquestionably,  too,  the  critical  faculty  is  power- 
less to  supply  worthy  conceptions.  But  that  is  beside 
the  point.  If  the  conceptions  are  worthy,  the  just  criti- 
cal faculty  will  recognize  their  merit,  and  give  the 
writer  courage  and  confidence  to  send  each  tale  across 
the  almost  inevitable  sea  of  rejections  until  it  comes 
to  port,  as  it  surely  will,  if  well  done.  And  if  the  con- 
ceptions are  feeble,  and  the  writer  cannot  better  them, 
it  will  be  better  for  him  and  all  concerned  that  he  dis- 
cover the  truth. 

Whether  the  essential  genius  of  the  teller  of  tales, 
the  power  that  first  supplies  a  theme  of  moment  and 
then  a  fitting  garb  for  it,  is  a  plant  capable  of  nurture, 
is  not  for  me  to  attempt  to  show,  or  even  to  state.  For- 
tunately, the  question  is  academic.  The  dons  may 
debate  the  point,  but  for  those  who  themselves  labor 
in  the  literary  vineyard  the  thing  to  remember  is  that 
the  same  habits  of  observation  and  practice  which  some 
claim  will  create  the  literary  faculty  will  at  least  foster 
its  growth,  if  it  is  a  gift,  as  others  claim,  and  not  to  be 


24  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

artificially  cultivated.  Steady  hours  at  the  desk  and 
moments  with  the  notebook,  the  cultivation  of  the  see- 
ing eye,  the  informed  mind,  and  the  sympathetic 
heart,  may  not  be  able  to  create  the  divine  spark.  But 
it  may  burn  within  one  for  all  that;  and  shall  one  ne- 
glect to  bring  it  to  full  flame  on  the  mere  chance  that 
it  may  not  exist  because  of  the  possibility  that  it 
cannot  be  created?  If  the  chance  of  its  existence  is 
great  enough  in  the  individual's  eyes  to  justify  the 
labor  of  writing  at  all,  it  is  great  enough  to  justify 
undertaking  the  correlative  activities  of  observation 
and  self-culture.  At  the  least  of  it,  these  can  result 
only  in  making  one  a  better  and  more  complete  man 
or  woman,  irrespective  of  the  literary  result.  The 
writer  who  fancies  that  his  labor  is  but  to  string 
words,  and  that  idea  or  passion  come  to  life  in  the 
barren  mind  or  heart,  is  foredoomed  to  failure.  No 
equation  can  be  formed  between  something  and  noth- 
ing, nor  can  something  come  from  nothing.  All  life 
and  all  art  is  a  quid  pro  quo;  the  writer  must  barter 
his  time  and  sweat  for  his  raw  materials,  ideas. 

There  is  little  need  to  state  that  of  writers  of  equal 
genius  the  one  with  the  deepest  reservoirs  of  observa- 
tion and  information  to  draw  upon  will  produce  the 
more  significant  work.  In  relation  to  expository  and 
argumentive  writing  the  fact  is  patent;  in  relation  to 
the  writing  of  fiction  it  may  be  less  obvious,  but,  curi- 
ously enough,  is  is  even  more  impressive  when  perceiv- 
ed. The  writer  of  special  treatise  or  argument  may 
"devil"  his  subject  for  the  occasion;  though  the  writer 
of  fiction  may  specially  investigate  the  phase  of  life  or 
society  with  which  he  deals,  his  investigations  will  aid 
him  only  in  the  external  matters  of  dress,  customs, 
speech,  or  atmosphere.  For  the  preservation  of  the 
essential  congruity  and  justness  of  the  whole  as  a 
presentation  of  life  he  must  depend  solely  upon  his 


THE  WRITER  HIMSELF  25 

own  innate  familiartiy  with  life,  which  cannot  be 
brushed  up  for  the  occasion,  for  it  necessarily  derives 
from  the  totality  of  the  individual's  experience  and  the 
use  he  has  made  of  it. 

In  this  connection  it  may  be  noted  that  above  all 
else  the  writer  of  fiction  must  be  catholic  in  his  inter- 
ests and  sympathies.  He  is  the  sieve  through  which 
the  motley  stream  of  life  is  poured  to  have  selected  for 
presentation  its  most  significant  aspects,  and  any  un- 
wisely cherished  aversions  of  his  are  so  many  gaps  in 
the  netting  through  which,  to  his  own  loss,  worthy  mat- 
ter constantly  will  escape.  It  is  difficult  enough  at  best 
for  even  the  most  open-minded  writer  to  achieve  some 
approach  to  an  adequate  presentation  of  a  phase  of  life, 
and  for  the  writer  whose  vision  is  distorted  by  preju- 
dice and  predilection,  however  perfect  his  technique, 
it  is  nearly  impossible.  The  writer  of  fiction  is  con- 
cerned with  political,  social,  or  religious  dogmas  only 
in  so  far  as  they  impinge  upon  and  affect  the  indi- 
vidual life  whose  course  his  pen  is  tracing,  and  his  only 
proper  and  fruitful  attitude  toward  such  dogmas  is  that 
of  observer,  not  of  fierce  advocate  or  equally  fierce  as- 
sailant. The  heart  of  the  people  is  sounder  than  its 
head,  perhaps  because  larger,  and  life  is  a  complex  of 
passion  rather  than  a  complex  of  intellectual  crusades. 
The  writer  of  fiction  addresses  the  whole  man,  his 
emotional  nature  as  well  as  his  intelligence,  and  should 
address  him  by  presenting  the  whole  man,  instead  of 
some  feeble  counterfeit  not  actuated  primarily  by  pas- 
sion. 

Emotion  can  be  evoked  only  by  the  portrayal  of 
passion,  and  emotion — sympathy,  disgust,  admiration, 
any  spiritual  excitement — is  the  root  of  the  appeal  of 
fiction.  There  are  other  elements  of  interest,  primarily 
intellectual,  as  in  the  detective  story  or  any  story  of 
ratiocination,  but  emotional  appeal  is  the  one  essential 


26  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

in  work  of  any  compass.  Emotional  appeal  is  attain- 
able only  through  a  just  presentment  of  life,  and  to- 
ward life  the  writer  of  fiction  must  preserve  an  atti- 
tude of  observation  and  ready  acceptance.  In  the  last 
analysis,  that  is  his  business.  The  world  pays  its  wage 
to  the  scientist  for  the  narrow,  intensive  view ;  it  pays 
its  wage  to  the  teller  of  tales  for  the  broad,  extensive 
view. 

The  course  of  letters  is  marked  by  great  failures 
whose  essential  technical  powers  were  nullified  or  at 
least  hampered  by  their  narrow  outlook  on  life,  and  by 
great  successes  whose  achievements  bear  the  scar  of 
prejudice  and  provincialism.  In  our  day,  the  multi- 
tudinous standing  controversies  of  the  past  have  been 
reduced  in  bitterness  by  the  more  general  diffusion  of 
information  and  by  the  conflicting  claims  of  more  nu- 
merous interests  that  demand  exercise.  Nevertheless 
we  still  have  the  division  between  rich  and  poor,  capital 
and  labor,  conservative  and  radical.  For  reasons  im- 
material here,  this  division  and  resulting  social  con- 
flict will  become  more  complete  and  bitter;  the 
writer  of  fiction  will  face  the  fact  and  be  forced 
to  deal  with  it  at  times;  and  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  one  may  be  abreast  or  even  ahead  of  the  best 
thought  of  the  day  without  being  hectic,  and  that  to 
draw  the  conservative  of  fiction  as  a  fool  or  a  villain 
simply  because  he  is  a  conservative  is  bad  art.  Con- 
ceivably a  man  may  be  back  in  the  ruck  of  thought  and 
belief  because  he  is  a  fool,  but  he  is  not  a  fool  merely 
because  he  is  behind  the  times.  He  may  have  had  no 
chance  to  learn  better,  and  that  is  precisely  the  story. 

Besides  viewing  life  with  a  sympathetic  and  in- 
clusive eye,  the  writer  of  fiction  should  investigate  the 
smaller  world  of  books.  Life  is  infinitely  more  rich  in 
substance  than  the  printed  word,  but  the  observer  is 
not  a  disembodied  spirit,  and  cannot  scrutinize  the 


THE  WRITER  HIMSELF  27 

whole  world,  cannot  exhaust  even  his  own  little  neigh- 
borhood. He  can  call  to  his  service  the  eyes  of  his  con- 
temporaries and  of  those  who  have  gone  before,  and, 
in  a  few  hours  reading,  can  live  vicariously  a  dozen 
lives.  In  this  very  real  sense  the  world  of  books  is 
practically  larger  than  the  actual  world ;  one  can  hope 
to  exhaust  its  more  significant  matter.  By  reading, 
the  writer  of  fiction  can  gain  familiarity  with  the  actual 
tissue  of  life,  the  casual  relation  between  motives  and 
acts — so  often  obscured  in  real  life — can  mingle  with 
nobler,  baser,  more  significant  people  than  he  will  be 
apt  to  meet,  and  can  estimate  the  efforts  of  others  in 
his  own  art.  Reading  of  all  sorts  will  yield  informa- 
tion, and  reading  of  fiction  will  reveal  the  root  causes 
of  success  and  failure  in  the  difficult  task  to  precipi- 
tate life  in  words. 

There  is  little  need  to  emphasize  the  difficulty  of 
the  task,  twofold  as  it  is.  One  must  find  matter,  and 
one  must  display  it.  Not  only  will  reading  conduce  to 
mental  development  and  flexibility;  it  will  reveal  the 
function  of  the  single  word.  Life  is  seen  in  chiaroscuro, 
but  words  are  sharp  and  definite  things.  As  Steven- 
son has  said,  the  writer  must  work  in  mosaic,  with 
finite  and  quite  rigid  words.  If  he  really  works,  scorn- 
ing to  abuse  a  noble  instrument  and  to  prostitute  a 
noble  profession,  his  difficulties  will  but  increase  with 
his  earnestness.  Flaubert  is  a  case  in  point.  Only  by 
reading  can  the  writer  discover  the  resources  of  lan- 
guage, and  only  by  reading  can  he  find  encouragement 
in  the  spectacle  of  what  patience  and  devotion  have 
achieved. 

One  may  employ  a  method  of  literary  presentment 
diametrically  opposite  to  that  of  fitting  the  right  word 
in  the  right  place,  the  method  of  taking  a  broad  canvas, 
disregarding  length,  and,  in  a  sort,  modeling  the  verbal 
mass,  which  will  possess  plasticity  to  an  extent,  though 


28  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

composed  of  words  intractable  and  rigid  in  them- 
selves, like  the  atoms  which  compose  modeler's  clay. 
But  this  method  is  open  only  to  the  writer  of 
a  novel  of  epic  length;  the  verbal  economy  of 
the  short  story  forbids  it ;  and  it  will  usually  be  found 
that  the  books  which  manifest  it — "Les  Miserables," 
"David  Copperfield,"  "Tom  Jones/'  "Jean  Chris- 
trophe,"  "War  and  Peace,"  much  of  Thackeray's  work, 
for  instance — owe  their  appeal  to  the  essential 
vitality  and  worth  of  their  matter  rather  than  to  any 
detailed  perfection  of  artistry.  If  the  story  is  worthy, 
it  will  not  be  injured  by  compact  and  artistic  ex- 
pression; the  function  of  the  artist  is  to  select  thb 
significant  from  life  and  to  present  it  as  pungently 
and  as  perfectly  as  possible ;  brevity  in  expression  is  as 
essential  as  economy  of  line  in  drawing.  I  have  read 
and  heard  it  stated  that  Stevenson  and  many  others 
eminent  for  artistry  are  thin  and  self-conscious  in  their 
work,  and  personally  I  would  give  much  to  know 
whether  this  impression  does  not  derive  from  the  fact 
that  many  of  the  accepted  great  books  of  the  world, 
and  most  of  those  appearing  day  by  day,  are  negligible 
as  examples  of  executive  artistry,  by  their  contrast 
making  the  occasional  work  that  is  concisely  and 
artistically  done  seem  somewhat  artificial.  The  reader 
is  perhaps  so  accustomed  to  imperfect  work  that  the 
perfect  has  a  touch  of  artificial  glitter,  and  seems  un- 
real. But  this  is  a  digression.  The  fact  remains  that 
the  writer  of  fiction  who  would  live  by  his  art  cannot 
afford  to  go  in  ignorance  of  what  has  been  done  before 
him.  He  should  read,  widely  and  with  all  his  faculties 
on  the  stretch.  A  vast  amount  of  experiment  lies  ready 
on  the  printed  page.  One  may  not  by  reading  learn 
how  to  do  perfect  work,  but  one  can  at  least  discover 
what  cannot  by  any  possibility  be  done. 

The  general  proposition  is  that  the  writer  of  fie- 


THE  WRITER  HIMSELF  29 

tion  must  observe  life,  must  estimate  it,  and  must  ex- 
press the  phase  that  his  estimation  shows  to  be  signifi- 
cant. The  open  eye,  the  cultivated  and  able  mind,  and 
the  trained  hand  are  all  equally  essential,  and  all  must 
work  together  in  harmony.  Some  have  the  eye  without 
the  hand ;  some  the  hand  without  the  eye ;  in  others  the 
faculty  of  discrimination  is  wanting;  but  eye,  mind, 
and  hand  may  all  be  trained  by  application.  No  one 
who  has  not  done  his  best  has  the  right  to  complain  of 
failure,  and  he  who  engages  in  the  difficult  business  of 
letters,  and  neglects  to  use  all  efforts  to  equip  himself, 
is  a  fool  and  nothing  else.  The  writer  may  live  in 
prosaic  surroundings  and  be  repressed  by  daily  contact 
with  people  as  dull  as  ditch  water ;  yet  the  world  is  wide 
and  man  a  free  agent  within  limits ;  let  him  strike  his 
tent  and  go  elsewhere.  But  let  him  first  make  quite 
sure  that  the  defect  is  in  his  environment  and  not  in 
himself.  Otherwise,  when  ensconced  in  a  snug  artistic 
Bohemia,  he  may  suffer  the  pain  of  learning  that  some 
quiet,  clear-eyed  seer  has  found  rich  ores  in  the  old 
home  life,  and  has  wrought  them  to  fresh  shapes  of 
beauty.  And  beyond  the  influence  of  all  accidents  of 
time  and  place  lies  the  world  of  imagination,  instinct 
with  austere  beauty,  offering  escape,  solace,  and  rich 
gifts  to  him  who  has  the  golden  key.  Investigate  the 
]ife  that  was  Hawthorne's  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  in 
the  thirties  and  forties,  then  read  "The  Scarlet  Letter," 
and  turn  your  eyes  within  if  ugliness  lies  stark  about 
you.  No  boor  and  dullard  may  walk  with  you  in  the 
fields  of  fancy,  alone  with  the  night  wind  and  the  quiet 
stars.  Dream  with  sanity,  live  with  sanity,  work  with 
sanity  and  purpose,  and  realize  that  life  and  thought 
are  your  business,  and  that  the  stream  of  life  as  a 
whole  is  clean  and  fresh  and  sweet  and  utterly  interest- 
ing even  if  you  yourself  are  caught  in  some  stagnant 
backwater.  Open  your  eyes  and  swim  for  the  clear 
reaches  of  the  stream. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  CHOICE  OF  MATTER 

Selection — Sincerity — Adventure — Common  Problems  of  Life — 
Originality — Novelty  and  Worth — Three  Elements  of  Fic- 
tional Literature — Interest — Elements  of  Interest. 

Life  is  infinitely  various,  and  the  possibilities  of 
the  imagination  are  even  more  extensive ;  the  writer  of 
fiction  has  enough  material  at  hand.  His  primary  task, 
to  pitch  upon  a  theme,  is  almost  wholly  selective, 
unless  he  is  cursed  with  a  paucity  of  observation 
or  barrenness  of  imagination,  in  which  case  he  has  mis- 
taken his  calling.  And  in  this  task  of  selection  the 
writer  must  bear  in  mind  several  considerations,  his 
own  predilections,  his  own  powers,  the  intrinsic  worth 
of  the  idea,  and — last  but  not  least — the  audience  he  is 
to  address.  The  writer  should  give  ear  to  his  own  per- 
sonal likings  because  he  will  do  better  work  when  he 
has  interest  in  the  matter  under  his  hands ;  he  should 
consider  his  own  powers  lest  he  attempt  too  much ;  he 
must  consider  the  intrinsic  worth  of  his  theme  lest  his 
work  be  essentially  feeble;  and  he  must  ponder  his 
audience  that  his  work  may  not  go  for  naught.  As  to 
this  last,  a  word  of  advice  may  not  be  out  of  place. 
Though  the  average  reader  may  have  little  power  to 
express,  he  usually  has  a  well  developed  power  to  ap- 
preciate, and  there  is  no  need  to  "write  down"  to  him. 
Condescension  on  the  part  of  the  writer  of  fiction  is 

30 


THE  CHOICE   OF   MATTER  31 

less  obtrusive  than  in  more  directly  informative  writ- 
ing, but  it  is  instantly  perceived  and  resented  when 
present.  The  best  audience  for  the  writer  to  imagine 
is  simply  the  best  audience,  alive  in  sensibilities  and 
intelligence. 

Stories — and  therefore  potential  stories — may  be 
divided  roughly  into  two  classes,  those  meant  frankly 
to  entertain  and  those  designed  to  perform  a  higher 
function  in  addition.  The  line  between  them  is  not 
hard  and  fast;  the  same  basic  idea  will  slip  from  one 
side  to  the  other  under  different  handling  by  different 
authors.  But  there  is  a  real  difference,  and  that  differ- 
ence is  made  by  the  presence  or  absence  of  sincerity 
in  the  writer.  The  complete  and  rounded  story  will 
interest,  which  is  the  element  of  bare  matter,  will  be 
so  perfectly  told  that  its  mere  structure  will  give  pleas- 
ure, which  is  the  element  of  artistry,  and  will  truly 
express  some  phase  of  life  as  the  author  sees  it,  which 
is  the  element  of  sincerity.  Stories  may  possess  all, 
some,  or  none  of  these  elements,  but  no  story  which 
does  not  possess  them  all  can  be  said  to  fulfil  completely 
the  ideals  of  the  art  of  fiction.  There  is  no  abstract 
obligation  to  be  sincere  resting  on  a  writer  of  fiction; 
he  should  be  sincere  because  his  work  will  gain  in 
power.  A  reader  will  feel  the  presence  or  lack  of  the 
quality. 

This  does  not  mean  that  the  writer  of  fiction 
should  take  himself  and  life  too  seriously,  a  fault  of 
which  George  Eliot  is  perhaps  an  example.  He  should 
simply  be  true  to  his  own  artistic  convictions.  If  he 
must  write  "pot-boilers"  for  a  living,  he  should  refuse 
to  let  the  hours  so  spent  dull  his  artistic  sense.  No 
taint  attaches  to  writing  an  entertaining  story  for  the 
money  in  it;  the  elder  Dumas,  for  instance,  was  a  far 
greater  artist  in  letters  than  hosts  of  more  sombre 
writers  who  preceded  and  have  succeeded  him.  And 


32  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

the  writer  who  has  Dumas*  intrinsic  gaiety  and  verve 
may  write  adventure  and  write  literature  too. 

Back  of  the  possibility  lies  the  fact  that  the  more 
bizarre  phases  of  life  are  somewhat  accidental  and  not 
very  inclusive.  The  writer  who  deals  with  them  must 
draw  on  his  imagination  heavily,  not  only  for  initial 
conceptions  but  for  details.  Very  possibly  he  may  miss 
some  of  the  warm  verisimilitude  that  derives  from 
writing  of  familiar  things  and  constitutes  the  keystone 
of  the  fictional  arch.  The  strange  and  striking  may 
gain  a  reader's  superficial  interest  very  easily,  but 
"easy  come,  easy  go"  and  the  story  of  deep-rooted 
appeal  is  the  story  that  displays  to  a  reader  sharply 
individualized  human  beings  meeting  the  daily  prob- 
lems that  are  our  common  human  lot.  These  problems 
are  not  dull  because  they  are  common  and  universal; 
their  universality  is  the  source  of  their  interest.  The 
writer  who  can  reduce  a  general  problem  of  love,  hate, 
or  labor  to  specific  terms  of  persons  and  events,  and  can 
invest  the  whole  with  that  certain  momentousness,  as 
of  life  raised  to  a  higher  power,  which  is  the  hallmark 
of  literature,  fulfils  the  highest  possibilities  of  the  art, 
whether  he  be  as  realistic  in  method  as  Dostoievsky  in 
"Crime  and  Punishment"  or  as  romantic  in  spirit  as 
Hawthorne  in  "The  Scarlet  Letter." 

Perhaps  all  this  is  somewhat  repellent.  We  are 
not  all  Hawthornes  in  embryo — worse  luck! — and 
though  a  good  many  aspire  to  do  something  worth 
while  in  itself  some  day,  another  good  many  are  more 
humble,  and  incline  to  view  the  editor's  check  as  suffi- 
cient warranty  of  success.  Such  an  attitude  is  much 
healthier  than  that  of  the  persecuted  genius  who  refus- 
es to  investigate  present  conditions  in  the  public  taste 
and  to  coax  and  take  advantage  of  them.  But  it  may  be 
carried  to  extremes.  I  do  not  think  that  many  deliber- 
ately write  trash,  but  it  is  apparent  that  a  good  deal 


THE   CHOICE   OF   MATTER  33 

of  trash  is  written  through  too  sedulous  imitation  of 
the  tone  of  current  literature.  There  is  a  recognizable 
type  of  machine-made  story  used  by  all  the  all-fiction 
magazines,  and  so  forth.  Subject  to  correction,  I  be- 
lieve that  the  greater  part  of  this  cut-and-dried  product 
is  owing  less  to  editorial  conservatism  than  to  authorial 
diffidence  toward  truly  original  work.  Work  may  be 
original  in  substance,  method,  and  viewpoint  without 
being  obscene  or  even  "frank."  When  they  do  leave 
trodden  ways,  too  many  young  writers  persist  in  op- 
posing the  justifiable  editorial  reluctance  to  print  any- 
thing that  might  give  offense  in  a  magazine  of  general 
circulation.  The  sex  relation  is  not  the  whole  of  life, 
and  even  the  sex  relation  may  be  treated,  without  the 
conventional  sugar  coating,  to  give  all  essential  facts 
and  make  all  essential  comments  and  not  be  forbidding. 
We  have  a  great  world  spread  before  us,  and  there  is 
more  in  it  for  telling  than  is  already  printed  and  on  the 
newsstands.  When  looking  for  a  story,  the  thing  to  do 
is  to  forget  those  that  have  been  written,  to  forget 
everything  except  the  spectacle  of  life. 

In  the  choice  of  matter  the  two  main  considera- 
tions are  novelty  and  worth.  Freshness  in  substance 
or  form  will  go  far  to  stimulate  the  writer  and  to  sell 
the  result  of  his  labor,  and  essential  worth  is  inspiring. 
No  man  finds  pleasure  in  trivial  and  useless  labor,  but 
all  normal  men  find  pleasure  and  exhilaration  in  labor 
that  is  worth  while.  The  writer  who  has  worthy  mat- 
ter beneath  his  hands,  and  who  knows  it,  will  remain 
keyed  to  the  requisite  pitch  during  the  labor  of  com- 
position. Numbers  have  testified  that  the  truest  joy 
of  authorship  is  found  in  conceiving  and  elaborating  a 
tale  before  setting  pen  to  paper,  and  time  spent  in  esti- 
mating an  idea  and  exhausting  its  possibilities  and 
deficiences  before  writing  is  necessary  to  make  certain 
that  the  idea  is  worth  while.  Moreover,  it  is  necessary 
3 


34  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

that  the  writer  know  precisely  what  his  idea  is  in  order 
to  develop  it  properly  by  excising  the  superfluous  and 
emphasizing  the  significant.  Conscious  artistry  is  im- 
possible unless  the  author  knows  definitely  what  he  is 
striving  to  express. 

The  writer  of  fiction  should  bear  in  mind  the  three 
elements  of  the  story  that  is  literature,  and  should  ask 
himself  whether  his  projected  tale  is  interesting, 
whether  it  is  capable  of  being  cast  in  literary  form, 
and  whether  it  is  worth  while.  If  the  idea  meets  all 
these  requirements,  any  failure  in  the  completed  work 
will  be  due  to  defective  execution,  not  to  deficiency  in 
the  conception.  If  the  idea  fails  to  meet  the  test  as 
to  form  and  worth,  it  may  yet  ioe  worth  while  to  write 
the  story,  for  it  may  sell ;  if  the  idea  is  not  interesting, 
it  should  be  rejected  without  remorse.  The  first  and 
highest  function  of  a  story  is  to  interest  and  entertain ; 
indeed,  artistic  form  is  but  a  means  to  that  end,  as  is 
essential  worth;  and  the  dull,  uninteresting  story — a 
contradiction  in  terms — is  the  most  woebegone  literary 
failure  under  the  stars. 

The  writer  who  allows  any  discussion  of  the  art 
of  fiction  or  the  content  of  fiction  to  cloud  for  him  the 
basic  fact  that  fiction  must  be  interesting  is  on  the 
highroad  to  failure.  It  would  be  better  for  him  had 
he  never  opened  a  book,  except  of  frank  adventure. 
Nine  tenths  of  the  ponderous  and  silly  comment  on 
fiction  past  and  fiction  present  is  written  by  critics 
and  professors  who  first  kick  up  a  great  dust  over  a 
work  in  order  to  display  their  insight  in  seeing 
through  it,  and  nine  tenths  of  that  nine  tenths — writ- 
ten purely  from  a  reader's  and  not  from  a  writer's 
standpoint — consists  in  appraising  character  by  con- 
ventional ethical  standards  and  in  attributing  to  the 
writer  whose  work  is  under  examination  intentions  and 
philosophies  of  which  he  never  dreamed.  It  is  at  once 


THE  CHOICE   OF   MATTER  35 

very  dull  and  very  amusing,  but  the  young  writer 
whose  eagerness  for  all  information  about  his  craft 
leads  him  to  take  such  matter  too  seriously  is  in  grave 
danger. 

The  writer  of  good  fiction  and  the  reader  of  good 
fiction  are  alike  in  that  they  both  realize  that  the  chief 
end  of  fiction  is  to  entertain  and  interest,  that  perfec- 
tion of  form  is  desirable  simply  because  it  heightens 
the  illusion  pf  a  story,  and  that  worth  of  matter  is 
necessary  if  the  story  is  to  be  true  literature  because 
the  cultured  mind  cannot  find  interest  in  the  trivial. 
Culture  has  been  finely  defined  as  "the  quality  of  a  mind 
instinct  with  purpose,  conscious  of  a  tendency  and 
direction  in  human  affairs,  able  and  industrious  in  dis- 
tinguishing the  great  from  the  trivial."  If  this  defi- 
nition is  valid — it  bears  its  credentials  on  its  face — great 
fiction  may  be  defined  as  fiction  which  interests  the 
cultured  mind.  The  quality  of  arousing  interest  is  the 
criterion  and  determinant,  and  implies  perfection  of 
form  and  essential  worth  of  substance.  The  writer  of 
fiction  must  never  lose  sight  of  the  fact,  nor  of  the 
resulting  necessity  that  all  his  work  be  interesting. 
The  fortunate  thing  is  that  fiction  deals  with  so  uni- 
versal a  thing  as  life;  it  need  not  repel  the  ignorant 
and  uneducated  in  order  to  attract  the  abler  mind. 

The  twin  elements  of  fictional  interest  are  the 
story  and  its  people,  and  here  becomes  apparent  the 
essential  weakness  of  the  story  of  mere  incident. 
It  cannot  evoke  interest  as  deep  as  that  called 
forth  by  the  story  having  closer  relation  to 
character.  The  range  of  character  required  by  the 
story  of  incident  is  narrow;  there  are  a  thousand 
pregnant  human  qualities  which  the  story  of  incident 
cannot  first  develop  by  action  and  then  utilize  to  hold 
a  reader's  interest,  but  which  the  writer  of  the  more 
leisurely  and  inclusive  tale  of  everyday  life  can  com- 


36  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

mand.  Character  in  fiction  can  be  truly  vivified  only 
by  showing  the  person  in  acts  displaying  his  essential 
traits,  and  the  less  dependence  the  action  of  a  story 
has  upon  character,  the  less  real  to  a  reader  will  be 
the  persons  involved.  The  story  of  complication  of  inci- 
dent, of  mere  structural  ingenuity  of  plot,  is  super v 
ficially  interesting,  but  it  lacks  the  deeper  appeal  of 
the  story  which  develops  its  people  adequately.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  true  that  a  reader  can  love  or  hate  characters, 
beside  being  interested  in  them;  he  can  only  be 
interested  in  an  event.  The  people  of  a  story  are  not 
to  be  neglected  as  sources  of  interest.  They  are  harder 
to  display  than  mere  events,  but  they  are  infinitely 
more  compelling.  A  bare  series  of  events  may  inter- 
est, but  the  interest  and  appeal  of  what  happens  will  be 
doubled  if  the  observer  is  a  friend  of  the  persons  af- 
fected, that  is,  if  he  knows  them.  The  same  is  true  in 
the  case  of  a  story.  Its  reader  stands  in  the  position  of 
observer  of  events  and  people.  The  only  trouble  is 
that  some  stories  have  little  action  significant  in  rela- 
tion to  character,  and  when  that  is  the  case  the  writer 
loses  one  means  to  make  his  people  real  for  a  reader. 
The  point  to  remember  in  searching  for  an  interesting 
story  is  that  the  people  are  as  influential  an  element  as 
the  events. 


CHAPTER  III 
CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  STORY  TYPES 

Conception  and  Execution — Utility  to  Know  Types — Novel  and 
Romance- — Short  Story — The  Three  Types — Emphasis — 
Three  Elements  of  Any  Story — Story  of  Character — Charac- 
ter and  Action — Story  of  Incident — Archtypal  Character — 
Short  Story  and  Fallacy  of  Compression — Story  of  Atmos- 
phere— Other  Types. 

The  labors  of  the  fiction  writer  are  of  two  sorts,  con- 
ceptive  and  executive.  In  actual  practice,  of  course,  the 
writer  may  have  only  the  faintest  glimmering  of  his 
story  when  he  begins  to  write,  and  may  simultaneously 
conceive,  elaborate,  and  express  as  he  goes  along;  but 
that  is  not  the  method  of  the  conscious  literary  artist. 
An  understanding  adaptation  of  means  to  ends  is  im- 
possible unless  the  writer  has  a  definite  purpose  fixed  in 
mind  from  the  first  moment  of  execution.  And  in  writ- 
ing on  technique  it  is  necessary  to  assume  the  natural 
order  of  the  total  artistic  or  creative  process,  whether 
the  actual  practice  of  any  writer  coincides  with  it  or 
not.  Therefore  the  body  of  conceptive  technique  first 
calls  for  treatment.  Strict  executive  technique  and  also 
the  technique  of  construction — which  is  both  concep- 
tive and  executive — will  be  taken  up  after  dealing  with 
the  matter  of  story  types  and  the  matter  of  plot. 

I  need  not  state  that  there  is  no  technique  of  con- 
ception, mastery  of  which  will  yield  the  writer  the 
golden  secret  of  how  to  create  or  find  a  good  story.  That 

37 


38  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

depends  strictly  on  personal  ability,  and  not  on  any 
objective  knowledge  of  the  mechanics  of  the  art  of 
fiction.  But  a  knowledge  of  the  several  fundamental 
types  of  story,  and  of  the  how  and  why  of  the  differ- 
ences between  them,  cannot  fail  to  aid  the  writer  in 
estimating  and  realizing  the  potentialities  and  deficien- 
cies of  a  particular  idea.  The  writer  who  knows  pre- 
cisely where  his  story  idea  will  classify  under  analysis 
has  a  standard  that  will  prove  most  useful  in  the  work 
of  development.  If  it  classifies  as  a  story  of  atmos- 
phere, rather  than  of  plot  or  of  character,  the  writer 
will  be  led  to  concentrate  upon  his  proper  task  of  creat- 
ing the  atmospheric  illusion,  and  will  not  dissipate  his 
energies  and  spoil  the  effect  of  the  finished  work  by 
interpolating  unnecessary  touches  of  emphasis  upon 
character  or  incident. 

Another  preliminary  word  may  not  be  out  of  place. 
A  story  is  a  story,  whether  long  or  short ;  but  the  novel 
or  lengthy  romance  is  so  much  more  inclusive  in  mat- 
ter and  complicated  in  structure  than  the  short  story- 
viewing  the  latter  as  a  distinct  literary  type — that  it  is 
less  essential  for  the  writer  of  fiction  of  book  length 
to  know  with  exact  definition  the  effect  he  wishes  to 
produce  than  it  is  for  the  writer  of  the  short  story  of  a 
few  thousand  words.  The  potential  and  usual  effects 
of  the  novel  are  many ;  it  may  and  usually  does  contain 
chapters  or  passages  emphasizing  all  three  story  ele- 
ments of  character,  complication  of  incident,  and 
atmosphere ;  but  the  short  story  is  limited  by  its  brevity 
to  the  creation  of  a  single  effect,  and  any  touch  of 
emphasis  looking  elsewhere  usually  will  detract  from 
the  power  of  the  whole.  Therefore  it  is  in  short  story 
writing  that  a  firm  preliminary  grasp  upon  all  the  im- 
plications and  connotations  of  the  basic  idea  is  most 
essential,  also  most  attainable,  and  therefore  a  dis- 
cussion of  fundamental  story  types  concerns  itself 


CONCEPTIVE   TECHNIQUE:   STORY   TYPES  39 

largely  with  the  short  story.  But  much  the  same  prin- 
ciples of  constructive  analysis  utilized  by  the  writer  ot 
the  short  story  may  be  profitably  employed  in  develop- 
ing the  various  but  more  or  less  unified  episodes  of 
the  novel. 

The  three  fundamental  types  of  story  have  a  per- 
fectly natural  origin.  A  story  is  the  relation  of  what 
(1)  certain  persons  (2)  did  (3)  in  a  certain  place  and 
under  certain  conditions  of  existence.  Accordingly,  as 
the  elements  of  personality,  action,  or  surrounding  con- 
ditions are  emphasized,  we  have  the  story  of  character, 
of  incident,  or  of  atmosphere.  As  Stevenson  has  said, 
there  are  but  three  ways  to  create  a  story,  to  conceive 
characters  and  select  and  devise  incidents  to  develop 
them,  to  take  a  plot — a  climactic  series  of  incidents— 
and  devise  characters  to  enact  it,  or  to  take  an  atmos- 
phere and  precipitate  it  as  best  the  writer  may. 

There  is,  however,  an  obvious  fact  to  remember. 
These  several  types  of  story  differ  from  one  another 
only  in  point  of  emphasis;  in  each  case  an  element 
possessed  by  all  is  stressed;  no  type  is  entirely  devoid 
of  the  elements  emphasized  in  the  other  two.  An  in- 
tended story  lacking  any  one  of  the  three  elements  of 
character,  of  complication  of  incident,  or  of  setting  is 
not  a  story,  but  something  else.  The  most  common 
example  is  the  composition  portraying  character  wfth- 
out  any  plot  or  complication  of  incident,  which  is  not  a 
character  story,  but  a  character  sketch.  It  cannot  be 
too  strongly  insisted  that  a  story  is  a  story,  consisting 
of  a  climactic  series  of  incidents,  as  distinguished  from 
a  tale,  which  is  a  level  series  of  incidents,  unrelated  save 
in  that  all  happen  to  the  same  group  of  characters. 
Plot  is  a  matter  not  specifically  under  discussion  as  yet, 
but  half  the  difficulty  and  most  of  the  inutility  in  writ- 
ing on  fiction  technique  reside  in  the  fact  that  one 
must  treat  in  isolation  matters  which  are  but  elements 


40  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

of  a  unified  artistic  synthesis.  A  story  is  a  story;  its 
people  do  not  merely  exist,  they  live  and  act.  In  the 
case  of  the  story  of  complication  of  incident,  the  com- 
plication supplies  the  story-element  of  the  fiction;  in 
the  case  of  character  story,  the  evolution  or  degenera- 
tion of  character  supplies  the  story-element;  while  in 
the  case  of  the  story  of  atmosphere,  the  climactic  pro- 
gression of  the  particular  emotional  impression  to  the 
point  of  highest  intensity  in  itself  supplies  much  of 
the  plot-  or  story-element  of  the  conception. 

Another  qualification  should  be  stated.  The  nor- 
mal story,  written  for  its  own  sake,  is  emphatic  in  that 
it  stresses  some  one  of  its  three  elements.  But  there 
is  also  the  thematic  story,  written  to  vivify  an  abstract 
proposition  or  to  point  a  moral.  The  type  lays  no 
special  emphasis  on  character,  incident,  or  setting,  and 
is  "written  with  an  eye  to  an  ulterior  purpose  beyond  the 
mere  sake  of  the  story.  It  is  not  a  natural  type,  and 
may  be  disregarded  here.  Incidentally,  it  is  not  a 
very  successful  type,  and  of  course  any  success  it  may 
achieve  as  a  work  of  art  cannot  derive  from  the  truth 
or  weight  of  the  proposition  or  moral  behind  it. 

Starting  from  the  proposition  that  there  are  three 
normal  story  types,  it  may  be  profitable  to  examine 
them  in  detail.  I  am  not  yet  concerned  with  the  tech- 
nical devices  whereby  character  may  be  drawn,  a  plot 
devised  and  narrated,  or  atmosphere  created;  my  sole 
purpose  is  to  suggest  how  the  writer  may  recognize 
the  true  character  of  his  idea,  that  in  developing  it  he 
may  know  exactly  what  he  is  trying  to  do. 

The  story  of  character  is  concerned  with  the  infi- 
nitely diverse  traits  of  our  common  human  nature  as 
manifested  by  the  people  of  a  story.  The  single  trait 
or  few  traits,  rather  than  the  totality  of  each  person's 
nature,  should  be  sought  to  be  developed,  for  reasons 
that  a  moment's  thought  will  render  apparent.  Char- 


CONCEPTIVE   TECHNIQUE:    STORY  TYPES  41 

acter  can  be  truly  realized  only  by  showing  the  person 
in  characteristic  actions  and.  unless  the  writer  desires 
to  extend  his  work  to  a  great  length,  he  can  formulate 
no  course  of  action  which  will  illustrate  a  complete  per- 
sonality. In  all  its  aspects,  fiction  is  a  matter  of  selec- 
tion, and  the  writer  of  a  story  of  character  should  con- 
centrate his  powers  of  description  and  exposition  upon 
the  traits  of  personality  involved  in  the  acts  of  the 
persons.  The  short  story  must  present  a  relatively 
incomplete  picture  of  each  character's  soul;  the  novel 
may  approach  each  person  from  a  number  of  angles; 
but  even  the  novelist  should  consider  whether  he  can- 
not give  maximum  reality  and  vivacity  to  his  people 
by  not  attempting  a  too  complete  presentation  of  each. 

If,  then,  the  initial  conception  of  a  story  involves 
or  suggests  true  traits  of  character,  it  may  be  advis- 
able to  develop  the  story  so  as  to  throw  into  strong 
relief  the  quality  or  qualities  involved.  The  possibility 
cf  the  wisdom  of  such  development  becomes  a  prob- 
ability if  the  traits  are  somewhat  novel  and  not  those 
possessed  in  common  by  all  men  to  some  extent,  such 
as  the  capacity  to  love,  to  hate,  to  sacrifice  self,  am- 
bition, the  fear  of  death,  and  so  forth. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  the  hallmark 
of  the  true  character  story  is  its  progression;  the 
persons  of  the  story  grow  stronger  or  weaker  in 
their  respective  traits  under  the  pressure  of  events. 
There  is  a  climactic  moment  of  indecision  and  suspense 
when  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  character  will  shape 
circumstances  or  circumstances  the  character.  This 
distinguishing  attribute  of  the  character  story  is  its 
essential  quality  as  a  story ;  the  strict  type  is  debarred 
from  recourse  to  complication  of  incident  to  save  it 
from  being  a  mere  sketch;  change  or  progression  in 
the  characters  is  itself  the  story  or  plot  element  of  the 
fiction.  Realization  of  the  fact  will  give  the  writer  a 
firmer  grasp  on  the  truth  that  characters  and  events 


42  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

must  be  developed  in  strict  concert  and  harmony. 
Anticipating  later  statement  a  trifle,  let  me  say  thai 
portrayal  of  the  actions  of  a  character  is  portrayal 
of  the  character  himself,  so  that  his  actions  must  be 
characteristic,  or  two  elements  of  the  story  will  be  at 
cross  purposes.  In  setting  out  to  write  a  character 
story,  the  author  deliberately  chooses  to  emphasize 
character  and  to  depend  for  interest  on  the  spectacle  of 
its  evolution  or  degeneration.  Since  he  is  after  all  writ- 
ing a  story — though  of  one  type — the  author  must 
devise  some  climactic  series  of  incidents.  But  the  char- 
acter element  is  the  preponderant  strain  of  the  fiction, 
and  each  successive  incident  should  be  chosen  with  an 
eye  to  that  element,  and  its  climactic  value  should  in- 
here in  its  being  climactic  and  progressive  in  relation 
to  the  trait  of  character  sought  to  be  developed. 

This  is  all  somewhat  abstract,  but  the  test  is  much 
easier  to  apply  to  a  concrete  story  idea  than  it  is  to 
formulate  in  terms.  If  the  idea  consists  of  a  tenta- 
tive grouping  of  incidents  which  suggests  an  interest- 
ing phase  of  character  in  an  interesting  phase  of  de- 
velopment, the  conception  may  be  elaborated  into  the 
story  which  emphasizes  character.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  the  initial  idea  is  simply  of  a  phase  of  character 
which  can  be  adequately  shown  in  progression  by  a 
series  of  incidents  devised  to  that  end,  the  same  treat- 
ment is  advisable.  In  each  case  it  is  possible  that  such 
treatment  will  give  maximum  effect  to  the  conception. 

The  story  of  complication  of  incident  interests 
primarily  because  of  its  plot,  and  not  because  of  its  peo- 
ple or  the  totality  of  its  emotional  effect.*  It  is  more 

*  One  might  expand  here  on  the  distinction  that  in  the  story 
stressing  character  it  is  the  particular  persons  who  interest  the 
reader,  while  in  the  story  of  plot  his  interest  centers  in  the 
events,  and  the  people  of  the  story  are  followed  less  as  indi- 
viduals than  as  the  human  focal  points  whereon  the  events  take 
effect.  Such  fine  analysis  is  tempting,  but  of  little  use,  for  any 
story  is  a  compact  unity  of  the  three  elements. 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:   STORY  TYPES  43 

than  a  type  of  story ;  in  a  way  it  is  really  the  archtype 
of  all  stories.  An  historical  analysis  will  show  the  truth 
of  the  statement.  First  came  the  tale,  a  chain  of  inci- 
dents having  no  essential  connection  except  that  they 
all  happened  to  the  characters.  Then  came  the  story, 
a  chain  of  incidents  which  are  not  fortuitous  and  acci- 
dental, but  each  essential  to  the  whole  design.  And 
from  the  story  have  sprung  such  variations  as  the  char- 
acter story,  which  emphasizes  the  element  of  person- 
ality, and  the  story  of  atmosphere,  which  emphasizes 
the  setting,  spiritual  or  material.  But  the  story  of 
plot,  which  stresses  the  bare  incident,  is  archtypal  of 
all  fiction  in  that  interest  centers  in  the  story 
rather  than  in  the  persons  or  their  environment.  Per- 
haps the  French  conte,  or  brief  dramatic  narrative,  is 
the  strictest  story  type  of  all. 

I  have  chosen  to  touch  upon  the  character  story 
first,  rather  than  the  more  fundamental  and  inclusive 
story  of  plot,  simply  because  the  potential  story  of  plot 
is  easily  recognizable,  and  my  sole  aim  here  is  to  state 
some  of  the  tests  which  the  writer  may  apply  to  his 
idea  after  conception  to  discover  its  true  character,  that 
he  may  know  how  to  handle  it.  The  germ  of  a  plot  can 
be  distinguished  at  a  glance,  while  the  question  of  what 
a  plot  really  is  requires  separate  treatment. 

If  the  writer  would  produce  a  strict  short  story, 
he  cannot  rest  content  with  the  apparent  fact  that  his 
initial  conception  is  the  germ  of  a  story  plot,  that 
being  the  case.  The  story  of  plot  may  be  easy  to  recog- 
nize as  a  genre,  but  not  all  stories  of  plot  are  potential 
short  stories.  All  plot  germs  are  not  susceptible  of 
adequate  development  within  the  narrow  limits  of  the 
short  story.  Ten  thousand  words  is  probably  the  ex- 
treme limit  of  the  type  as  a  commercial  possibility,  and, 
in  a  space  so  brief,  if  the  chain  of  events  is  at  all 


44  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

complicated  or  lengthy,  it  is  impossible  to  bring  out 
all  its  nuances  and  implications.  Too  many  critics 
and  writers  seem  to  entertain  the  idea  that  the 
short  story  is  the  result  of  compression,  but  em- 
phatically that  is  not  true.  The  synopsis  of  previous 
chapters  before  an  instalment  of  a  serial  novel  is  an 
example  of  compression,  and  a  most  repellent  one.  A 
short  story  is  the  result  of  its  own  inherent  brevity. 
A  naturally  long  story,  it  is  true,  may  be  shortened 
materially  by  mere  rhetorical  compression,  but  it  can- 
not be  rendered  a  short  story  thereby,  for  the  short 
story  develops  its  fewer  incidents  with  as  much 
rhetorical  elaboration  as  the  novel  or  romance  develops 
its  many  happenings.  The  short  story  that  is  a  short 
story — such  as  Kipling's  "Without  Benefit  of  Clergy," 
Stevenson's  "Markheim,"  or  Poe's  "Fall  of  the  House 
of  Usher" — gives  off  no  impression  of  verbal  bareness. 
The  short  story  is  a  literary  form,  with  all  the  elabora- 
tion of  expression  that  the  term  implies.  Its  brevity 
results  from  careful  selection  of  the  incidents  to  be 
set  forth,  and  not  from  concise  expression  of  an  indis- 
criminate welter  of  incidents. 

Undoubtedly  the  matter  requires  emphasis.  Too 
much  has  been  written  and  said  as  to  the  necessity  of 
compression  in  short  story  writing.  If  what  is  meant 
is  rhetorical  compression,  bare  statement  without  ver- 
bal elaboration,  no  such  necessity  exists.  What  is 
necessary  is  care  in  making  certain  that  the  story  is  a 
short  story,  and  care  to  relate  nothing  not  essential  to 
its  development. 

The  French  type  of  short  story  in  general,  and 
Maupassant's  work  in  particular,  are  often  cited  to 
illustrate  the  need  for  compression.  In  the  first  place, 
the  essential  genius  of  the  French  language  is  such  that 
in  translations,  to  English  or  American  apprehension, 
fully  elaborated  statement  often  seems  somewhat  bare. 


CONCEPTIVE   TECHNIQUE:    STORY  TYPES  45 

Moreover,  I  cannot  admit  that  Maupassant's  best  work 
is  equal  in  rounded  artistry  and  appeal  to  that  of  others 
who  have  chosen  to  write  less  barely  and  mathemati- 
cally. If  compression  means  anything,  it  means 
squeezing  something  into  less  space  than  it  would  nor- 
mally occupy,  which  is  not  artistry,  but  an  attempt  to 
do  in  execution  the  proper  work  of  conception  and 
construction,  to  devise  a  story  which  can  be  given 
adequate  literary  expression  in  a  limited  number  of 
words. 

A  critical  reading  of  almost  any  successful  short 
story  will  disclose  that  the  manner  of  its  telling  is  as 
truly  the  source  of  its  interest  and  appeal  as  is  the 
novelty  or  human  importance  of  the  naked  story  idea. 
The  difference  between  a  recital  of  facts  and  a  work 
of  fiction  is  the  difference  between  mere  reporting  and 
true  literature.  The  writer  who  strives  to  compress 
in  expression,  instead  of  carefully  selecting  the 
matter  for  expression,  deliberately  rejects  his  only 
means  to  produce  a  sufficiently  full  and  rounded  pre- 
sentment of  the  particular  phase  of  life  he  seeks  to  de- 
pict. That  means  is  to  write  with  due  elaboration,  lest 
the  phrasing  seem  stark  and  flat  in  comparison  with 
the  softly  moulded  contours  of  life  itself.  There  are 
two  elements  in  literature,  the  fact  and  the  form ;  they 
are  equally  important  and  should  be  equally  complete. 
When  considering  the  fitness  of  a  plot  to  serve  as  the 
skeleton  for  a  short  story,  remember  that  in  execution 
the  thing  must  be  written  with  due  verbal  elaboration, 
else  it  will  be  angular  and  unattractive,  and  that  the 
idea  of  many  incidents,  people,  or  places  cannot  be  so 
written  in  the  space  available.  In  execution,  write  ade- 
quately, and  in  conception  and  construction,  select. 

The  story  of  atmosphere,  which  emphasizes  the 
setting  in  which  its  people  move,  and  seeks  to  bring  out 
the  emotional  value  of  the  physical  or  spiritual  environ- 


46  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

ment,  is  not  difficult  to  recognize,  being  like  the  story 
of  plot  in  this  respect.  But  it  is  most  difficult  to  do  well. 
The  story  of  character  deals  with  concrete  people,  and 
the  story  of  plot  deals  with  concrete  events;  the  story 
of  atmosphere  deals  with  these  and  something  more, 
an  intangible  sensual  or  emotional  impression,  as  of 
beauty  or  horror,  correspondingly  more  difficult  to 
create.  It  demands  imaginative  powers  of  the  highest 
order,  and  perfect  technical  powers.  Within  limits, 
the  unimaginative  author  may  write  effectively  of 
characters  and  events,  for  he  can  see  and  study  them 
objectively  in  daily  life,  and,  again  within  limits,  they 
may  also  be  presented  effectively  by  matter  of  fact 
phrasing.  But  atmosphere  cannot  be  seen — even 
physical  atmosphere  must  be  felt,  or  there  is  no  emo- 
tional effect — and  all  the  resources  of  language  at  times 
become  pitifully  inadequate  to  precipitate  an  emotion. 
It  is  all  a  matter  of  clear  conception  and  careful  design, 
and  the  secret  cannot  be  stated,  but  must  be  learned, 
each  for  himself.  However,  I  am  not  concerned  in  this 
place  with  executive  technique,  or  even  with  construc- 
tive technique,  and  whatever  hints  can  be  given  as  to 
the  creation  of  atmosphere  would  be  out  of  place.  M> 
object  is  merely  to  state  the  fundamental  types  of 
story  and  the  necessity  that  the  writer  recognize  the 
true  character  of  his  conception,  that  he  may  develop 
it  with  emphasis  properly  laid. 

Other  types  of  story  exist,  but  the  lines  between 
them  are  not  drawn  by  the  inherent  character  of  the 
art  of  fiction.  The  love  story,  for  instance,  may  be  told 
with  emphasis  on  character,  on  incident,  or  on  atmos- 
phere, and  the  placing  of  emphasis  determines  its  artis- 
tic character.  The  technique  of  conception  is  con- 
cerned only  with  fundamental  types,  and  the  sole  ob- 
ject of  its  mastery  is  to  give  the  writer  knowledge  of 
the  essential  artistic  character  of  each  of  his  concep- 


CONCEPTIVE   TECHNIQUE:   STORY  TYPES  4? 

tions,  that  he  may  work  with  a  definite  aim  in  develop- 
ment. My  object  is  not  to  discuss  or  analyze  pedanti- 
cally, for  the  sake  of  the  analysis  itself,  but  simply  to 
state  the  importance  of  discovering  the  basic  fictional 
character  of  the  idea,  that  it  may  be  properly  expanded. 
Strict  constructive  and  executive  technique  of  course 
require  separate  treatment. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:   PLOT  AND 
SITUATION 

Definition  of  Plot — Character  and  Plot — Dramatic  Value  of  Plot 
— Complication — Interest — Plot  as  Problem — Three  Basic 
Themes — Conflict  Between  Man  and  Nature — Conflict  Be- 
tween Man  and  Man — Conflict  Within  the  Same  Man — Ar- 
rangement of  Elements  of  Plot — Climax — Major  Situations 
— Situation  and  Plot. 

The  plot  of  a  story  is  its  heart  and  essence.  This 
is  obviously  true  in  the  case  of  the  strict  story  of  plot, 
and  it  is  very  curiously  true  in  the  case  of  the  story 
of  character  or  of  atmosphere.  For  in  the  story  which 
lays  emphasis  on  personality,  the  evolution  or  degen- 
eration of  the  particular  trait  which  has  been  selected 
for  presentation  is  the  real  story-element  of  the  fiction. 
The  fact  is  the  root  of  the  necessity  that  the  action 
develop  in  concert  with  the  trait  of  character,  giving  it 
opportunity  for  expression.  And  in  the  story  which 
lays  emphasis  on  atmosphere,  the  climactic  progression 
of  the  particular  atmosphere  to  the  point  of  highest 
intensity  is  the  real  story-element,  which  is  the  root 
cf  the  necessity  that  the  action  develop  in  strict  keeping 
with  the  atmosphere,  that  the  effect  may  not  be 
spoiled. 

What  is  a  plot  ?  Many  attempts  at  definition  have 
been  made,  and  the  results  have  not  been  illuminating. 

48 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION       49 

Everyone  has  an  idea  of  what  a  plot  is,  but  those  who 
have  attempted  to  state  their  conception  briefly  have 
encountered  difficulties.  Perhaps  an  indirect  approach 
to  the  problem  will  yield  results. 

A  tale  is  not  a  story,  for  a  tale  is  a  relation  of 
events  which  happened  to  happen  to  the  characters.  It 
is  episodal,  and  the  interest  of  the  thing  inheres  in  each 
episode  separately,  not  in  the  whole.  There  is  no  es- 
sential connection  between  the  incidents,  except  that 
they  all  happened  to  the  same  group  of  characters.  The 
contrary  is  true  of  a  story,  interest  in  which  is  in  the 
whole,  as  a  progression,  and,  since  the  difference  be- 
tween tale  and  story  is  made  by  the  presence  or 
absence  of  plot,  it  appears  that  a  distinguishing  mark 
of  a  plot  is  that  its  events  function  together  as  a  unit. 
There  is  some  connection  between  them  other  than 
chance,  and  that  connection  lies  in  the  intimate  rela- 
tion between  the  events  of  a  story  and  its  characters. 
Event  and  personality  each  influence  or  even  deter- 
mine each  other  simultaneously.  Incidentally,  realiza- 
tion or  the  fact  will  free  the  writer  from  any  miscon- 
ception that  the  action  and  the  characters  are  separable 
elements  of  a  story.  For  instance,  jealousy,  a  trait  of 
character,  may  cause  a  murder,  an  event,  and  a  hus- 
band's chance  opening  of  a  letter  addressed  to  his  wife, 
an  event,  may  give  rise  to  Jealousy,  the  trait  of  charac- 
ter. Or  the  husband's  loyalty  will  be  strengthened  in 
the  fiction  if  he  refuses  to  credit  appearances. 

Interaction,  then,  between  incidents  and  charac- 
ters, arising  from  the  unity  of  the  whole  conception, 
is  the  first  essential  element  of  a  plot.  The  second  es- 
sential element — and  there  are  but  two — is  that  the 
several  incidents  of  the  story  possess  climactic  value, 
not  necessarily  climactic  value  in  the  sense  of  ascending 
tensity — though  that  is  most  desirable — but  climactic 
value  in  that  each  event  should  have  influence  in 


50  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

forwarding  the  story  to  a  definite  end,  that  state  of 
quiescence  which  is  not  attainable  in  real  life  short  of 
the  grave,  but  which  fiction  must  postulate.  In  other 
words,  since  a  plot  is  made  up  of  incidents  which  influ- 
ence and  are  influenced  by  the  characters,  and  since 
the  story  must  move  to  an  end,  a  plot  presents  a  prob- 
lem. What  will  the  persons  do?  if  the  emphasis  is  on 
personality ;  and  what  will  happen  ?  if  the  emphasis  is 
on  the  event. 

To  state  it  in  the  form  of  a  definition,  a  plot  is  a 
series  of  events  which  influence  and  are  influenced  by 
traits  of  personality,  and  which  are  climactic  in  that 
they  move  to  a  definite  conclusion,  so  that  the  series  em- 
bodies some  problem  of  life  brought  to  solution. 

I  state  this  merely  for  what  it  may  be  worth,  which 
possibly  is  no  great  matter  to  the  writer  of  fiction. 
Plots  are  not  to  be  found  by  vivifying  a  definition,  but 
a  definition  may  prove  useful  in  testing  a  story  idea 
when  it  is  found,  and  the  object  of  the  whole  discus- 
sion is  merely  to  give  the  writer  some  aid  in  appraising 
the  essential  fictional  value  of  his  conceptions. 

The  fact  that  a  plot  is  a  problem  gives  the 
several  events  their  climactic  value.  They  are  steps 
and  approaches  to  the  solution.  And  a  plot  is  a  prob- 
lem simply  because  fiction  concerns  man,  while  man  is 
a  free  agent,  in  possibility  at  least.  Given  certain 
characters  and  an  event  bearing  upon  them,  and  the 
problem  of  what  they  will  do  instantly  arises,  and  the 
problem  of  the  ultimate  result  of  their  actions.  Given 
certain  events,  to  reverse  the  emphasis,  and  characters 
on  whom  they  bear,  and  the  same  problems  arise.  A 
plot  is  question  and  solution  in  one,  and  the  solution 
must  inevitably  follow  from  the  characters  and  events. 

It  will  be  perceived  that  the  distinguishing  quality 
of  a  plot  is  its  dramatic  value.  A  plot  is  a  problem  of 
life,  and  a  problem  is  a  conflict  between  opposing  forces. 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION       51 

Event  and  character  wrestle  with  one  another,  and  the 
outcome  is  doubtful,  wherein  lies  the  interest  of  the 
story.  It  is  accurate  to  state  that  the  conflict  is  be- 
tween event  and  character,  for  though  character  may 
struggle  with  character,  nevertheless  the  struggle  is 
operative  only  in  action,  and  the  opposed  persons  strug- 
gle with  the  doings,  not  the  naked  souls,  of  each  other. 

It  will  be  perceived  also  that  the  element  of  com- 
plication is  not  essential  to  a  plot,  as  Poe  has  pointed 
out.  Of  course,  in  the  story  of  incident,  where  the 
reader's  interest  centers  chiefly  in  the  events,  not  in 
the  characters  or  atmosphere,  complication  is  most 
useful,  and  in  fact  supplies  much  of  the  problem-  or 
plot-element  of  the  fiction.  But  complication  is  not  a 
sine  qua  non,  and  should  not  be  so  regarded.  Compli- 
cation of  incident,  indeed,  in  the  story  which  is  funda- 
mentally of  character  or  atmosphere,  may  prove  a  posi- 
tive handicap,  adding  to  the  difficulties  of  execution 
and  spoiling  the  unity  of  effect,  if  the  fiction  is  a  short 
story.  As  has  been  stated,  the  novel  is  a  broader  can- 
vas, without  a  single  emphasis  if  the  writer  wills,  and 
here,  within  the  limits  of  naturalness,  complication  of 
plot  is  thoroughly  desirable.  Any  bid  for  a  reader's 
interest  is  of  use,  only  in  the  short  story  the  writer 
must  necessarily  limit  himself  to  one  sort  of  bid. 

At  that  last  of  it,  pretty  nearly  all  of  the  technique 
of  fiction  writing  has  root  in  the  necessity  first  to  gain 
the  reader's  interest  and  then  to  hold  it.  That  is  the  real 
object  of  perfection  of  form,  even,  and  the  device  of 
plot  has  root  in  the  same  object.  In  simpler  and  more 
unsophisticated  ages  the  stage  presented  not  drama 
but  mere  spectacles,  as  the  tale  did  in  the  spoken  word 
or  printed  page;  the  plot,  lending  to  the  play  its  dra- 
matic character  and  to  the  fiction  its  story  character, 
developed  only  when  audience  and  readers  lost  the 
child's  vivid  interest  in  whatever  he  sees,  and  began  to 


52  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

yawn  at  the  episodal.  Pageantry  and  the  unrelated 
event  became  stale,  in  comparison  with  the  spectacle 
of  life  itself,  and  then  plot  was  found,  a  method  of 
isolating  a  single  one  of  life's  strands,  and,  by  showing 
it  in  high  relief,  lending  it  an  added  dignity  and  appeal. 

The  basis  of  the  more  intense  appeal  of  the  plot 
ever  that  of  the  episode  is  psychological.  The  hardest 
thing  in  the  world  to  do  is  to  make  a  reader  think,  but 
the  reader  who  does  think  is  interested.  That  is  why 
he  is  thinking.  Since  a  plot  is  a  problem,  the  reader 
of  a  story  of  plot  is  made  to  think,  and  the  matter 
impinges  upon  him  with  some  force.  To  repeat  former 
phraseology,  if  the  emphasis  is  on  the  events,  he  tries 
to  figure  out  what  will  happen,  at  least  wonders  about 
it;  if  the  emphasis  is  on  the  characters,  he  tries  to 
foresee  what  they  will  do.  Incidentally,  the  reader  of 
to-day  is  habituated  to  the  story  of  plot.  If  nothing 
happens  he  will  chalk  a  black  mark  against  author  and 
magazine,  as  the  editor  knows. 

As  has  been  said — and  emphasis  is  not  out  of 
place — a  plot  is  a  problem.  Problem,  in  this  connection, 
means  conflict  between  opposing  forces,  which  gives 
the  various  events  and  situations  of  a  story  any  dra- 
matic value  they  may  possess.  It  follows  that  there 
are  three  basic  plot-themes,  conflict  between  man  and 
his  environment  or  Nature,  conflict  between  man  and 
man,  and  conflict  between  opposed  traits  in  the  same 
man.  It  will  be  profitable  for  the  writer  to  bear  this 
in  mind  when  combing  the  world  for  his  story. 

In  his  essay  on  Victor  Hugo's  romances,  Stevenson 
has  touched  upon  the  emergence  in  fiction  of  the  con- 
flict between  man  and  Nature.  Briefly,  his  argument  is 
that  in  the  works  of  such  a  one  as  Scott  the  world  and 
natural  forces  serve  but  as  stage  and  stage  devices  for 
man  and  his  doings,  while  Hugo,  particularly  in  "The 
Toilers  of  the  Sea,"  draws  storm,  cold,  and  heat  as 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION       53 

man's  active  enemies,  almost  endowing  Nature  with  a 
vindictive  personality.  Whatever  the  fact  as  to  Hugo, 
it  is  certain  that  to  those  who  meet  her  face  to  face 
on  sea  and  land  Nature  is  a  somewhat  stony-hearted 
mother,  yielding  food  and  shelter  only  at  the  pistol- 
point  of  toil  and  struggle.  To  those  of  us  who  live  in 
cities,  and  whose  concerns  are  mainly  social,  the  con- 
stant struggle  of  mankind^  against  drought  and  flood, 
storm  and  cold,  fire  and  famine  is  obscured,  but  it  is 
a  living  reality,  nevertheless,  and  a  rich  source  of 
fiction  that  will  get  under  the  skin  of  the  most  pam- 
pered apartment-dweller.  The  roots  of  our  lives 
stretch  far  into  the  dim  past,  when  the  unending  strug- 
gle with  natural  forces  was  a  bitter  reality  to  all,  and 
adequate  fictional  presentment  of  the  struggle  with 
Nature  often  proves  to  have  an  incisive  appeal  wanting 
in  less  fundamental  themes.  Particularly,  the  writer 
may  rely  upon  such  a  story's  appealing  to  the  cultured 
and  the  uncultured  mind  alike,  for  the  intrinsic  human 
importance  of  its  theme  is  felt  by  all.  The  elements 
of  the  dramatic  problem  presented  are  so  simple  that 
previous  familiarity  with  them  in  personal  experience 
is  not  essential  to  their  understanding. 

A  fine  example  of  this  theme  given  short  story 
treatment  is  Bret  Harte's  'The  Outcasts  of  Poker 
Flat,"  while  the  portions  of  Stevenson's  "Kidnapped" 
dealing  with  David's  experience  on  the  Isle  of  Earraid 
and  his  flight  through  the  heather  with  Alan  Breck 
find  their  dramatic  quality  largely  in  the  same  theme. 
It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Harte,  however,  does  not 
emphasize  the  conflict  between  man  and  Nature  to 
the  utmost  of  possibility,  for  in  his  story  there  is 
much  emphasis  on  character  and  the  struggle  of  man 
with  man.  Whether  the  story  gains  or  loses  in  total 
effect  thereby  is  immaterial ;  it  will  prove  an  interest- 


54  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

ing  experience  for  the  writer  to  recast  the  tale  so  as 
to  bring  out  more  exclusively  the  theme  of  conflict  with 
Nature.  In  connection  with  the  general  discussion  as 
to  plot,  I  will  state  that  if  Harte  had  entirely  excised 
the  theft  of  the  party's  horses  by  the  treacherous 
member,  and  had  not  brought  out  the  contrast  between 
the  gambler,  the  prostitutes,  and  the  innocents,  the 
story  still  would  have  been  adequately  plotted.  The 
bare  situation  of  men  and  women  snowbound  in  a 
mountain  cabin  is  a  plot  germ,  for  it  suggests  the 
problem  whether  they  will  survive  or  perish. 

The  plot  which  presents  conflict  between  man  and 
man  is  distincly  social  in  nature.  The  possibilities  for 
the  writer  of  fiction  in  the  general  scramble  for  the 
almighty  dollar,  the  rivalry  of  love,  the  desire  for  re- 
venge, and  a  thousand  other  passions  and  ambitions 
that  bring  man  into  conflict  with  his  fellows,  are  prac- 
tically infinite.  Three  minutes  spent  in  running  over 
this  field  for  plots  will  demonstrate  the  folly  of  bewail- 
ing the  lack  of  something  fresh  to  write  about.  Per- 
haps some  ingenious  mathematician,  given  the  data 
that  there  are  a  hundred  million  men  and  women  in  the 
United  States,  and  that  each  one  has  some  small 
number  of  desires  and  passions  active  or  dormant,  will 
calculate  the  potential  conflicts  resulting.  Each  con- 
flict is  the  seed  of  a  plot,  and  each  plot  may  be  written 
a  hundred  times,  each  story  being  made  different  from 
the  last  by  varying  the  manner  of  treatment.  There 
is  not  too  little  to  write  about;  there  is  so  very  much 
that  keen  selection  is  essential. 

Any  magazine  offers  examples  of  the  exploitation, 
by  short  story  writers,  of  the  conflict  between  man  and 
man,  while  to  portray  the  conflict  is  peculiarly  the  field 
of  the  novel,  with  its  social  emphasis.  Balzac  and 
and  Thackeray  are  supreme  masters  in  presenting  a 
slice  of  the  social  spectacle ;  "Vanity  Fair"  and  "Cousin 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION       55 

Pons"  depict  struggle  between  their  people,  and  but 
little  else.  At  the  top  of  the  social  ladder  the  struggle 
is  carried  on  by  intrigue  and  sugared  words,  at  the 
bottom  with  the  knife  and  naked  fist,  but  the  struggle 
is  the  same  in  essence,  and  of  enthralling  interest  to  a 
reader.  All  the  world  loves  a  winner,  and  all  the  world 
wants  to  find  out  whom  it  is  to  love.  The  mere 
mechanical  details  wherein  the  struggle  finds  expres- 
sion and  operation  are  the  least  of  the  plot,  which  is 
indebted  for  its  dramatic  quality  to  the  bare  fact  of 
struggle.  Doubtless  the  girl  who  runs  daily  to  the  pub- 
lic library  for  a  novel  would  be  shocked  to  be  told  that 
she  is  impelled  by  the  same  human  quality  that  makes 
street-loafers  and  passersby  gather  about  two  fighting 
boys,  but  she  is,  nevertheless.  The  writer  who  would 
please  her — and  her  father,  mother,  and  brothers — will 
do  well  to  remember  the  fact. 

The  story  which  seeks  to  present  conflict  between 
two  opposed  traits  in  the  same  man  or  woman  is  most 
difficult  to  write  so  as  to  create  any  fictional  illusion. 
It  deals  almost  exclusively  with  psychological  data,  01 
the  facts  of  the  soul,  and  requires  knowledge  and  im- 
aginative insight  as  well  as  verbal  dexterity.  It  is 
supremely  easy  to  conceive  a  plot  involving  struggle 
of  the  man  with  himself,  but  it  is  supremely  hard  to 
give  such  a  struggle  objectivity,  to  expand  it  into  a 
fiction  operative  in  action  and  yet  developing  the  in- 
ternal conflict.  I  cannot  think  of  a  finer  example  than 
Stevenson's  "Markheim."  A  close  and  critical  study 
of  this  story  by  one  who  is  qualified  to  taste  its  full 
flavor  will  reveal  at  once  the  great  difficulties  that  face 
the  writer  who  chooses  such  a  theme,  and  the  high 
pitch  of  achievement  attainable  through  proper  hand- 
ling of  material. 

The  greatest  practical  drawback  to  the  giving  of 
much  time  to  mastering  the  technique  of  soul-analysis 


56  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

lies  in  the  narrow  appeal  of  such  a  story  even  when 
perfectly  conceived  and  written.  To  recur  to  the  always 
apposite  Stevenson,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  his  "Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde"  is  a  thousand  times  more  inter 
esting  to  the  average  reader  than  "Markheim,"  simply 
because  the  soul-struggle  is  so  much  more  completely 
made  objective  and  given  expression  in  action  in  the 
first  fiction  than  in  the  second.  This  is  done  so  very 
emphatically  that  nine  readers  out  of  ten  entirely  miss 
the  point  of  "Jekyll  and  Hyde,"  and  fail  to  realize  that 
the  struggle  is  between  two  tendencies  in  the  same  man, 
who  is  split  into  his  good  and  bad  selves  merely  for  the 
sake  of  concreteness.  Most  fiction  readers  have  little 
love  for  abstractions  and  fine  spun  analysis — witness 
the  common  repute  of  Henry  James,  to  an  extent  un- 
deserved, it  may  be  said  in  passing.  Exclusive  emphasis 
upon  the  struggle  of  the  man  with  himself  will  tend  to 
confine  the  writer's  appeal  to  the  intellectuals,  in  the 
special  modern  sense,  a  matter  inimical  to  the  pocket- 
book,  at  the  least  of  it.  Psychological  analysis  is  most 
useful  in  developing  almost  any  type  of  story,  but  as 
the  sole  theme  for  a  fiction  it  has  its  disadvantages. 

When  the  writer  has  his  hands  on  a  plot,  of  what- 
ever type  and  however  found,  his  conceptive  labors  are 
by  no  means  over.  It  remains  to  recast  and  rearrange 
the  elements  of  the  idea,  that  the  most  effective  ar- 
rangement may  be  discovered.  A  first  invention  is  very 
rarely  incapable  of  improvement,  and  in  the  interests 
of  artistry  the  author  should  exhaust  all  the  possibili- 
ties of  his  idea  before  writing,  that  he  may  not  chance 
upon  unsuspected  potentialities  in  his  story  only  when 
it  is  half  written,  or  not  discover  them  at  all.  Within 
limits,  of  course,  any  story  will  tend  to  shape  itself; 
in  particular,  there  is  much  testimony  as  to  the  intract- 
ability of  characters ;  but  one  cannot  consciously  strive 
to  do  any  particular  thing  or  to  produce  any  particular 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION       57 

effect  without  first  knowing  just  what  the  thing  or 
ef  eel  is  to  be. 

Possibly  the  most  important  matter  is  to  arrange 
the  mcidents,  the  separate  elements  of  the  problem  or 
conflict  which  the  plot  presents,  in  such  manner  as  to 
give  the  progression  a  climactic  character.  Not  only 
should  each  major  event  be  a  definite  step  toward  the 
conclusion,  solution,  or  denouement,  but  aach  succeed- 
ing event  should  be  more  striking,  significant,  and  tense 
than  its  predecessor.  This  sort  of  climactic  movement 
is  not  essential  to  a  plot,  but  it  is  an  essential  element 
of  a  good  plot,  particularly  a  good  plot  for  a  short  story. 
The  short  story  is  a  much  more  strict  and  artificial  type 
of  fiction  than  the  novel;  in  other  words,  its  writer 
has  fewer  resources  to  impress  a  reader,  and  he  must 
utilize  to  the  full  whatever  is  open  to  him.  Among  his 
resources  is  the  device  of  sensible  movement  to  a  crisis 
or  climax.  Like  the  rest  of  fiction  technique,  the  de- 
vice is  useful  because  it  tends  to  keep  alive  and  stimu- 
late a  reader's  interest.  This  it  does  because  ascending 
tensity  suggests  further  struggle.  Any  flat  incident, 
on  the  contrary,  less  tense  or  striking  than  its  prede- 
cessor, infallibly  suggests  that  the  story  is  already 
falling  to  its  end,  and  the  end  seems  dull  because  the 
problem  is  not  fully  worked  out  or  even  stated. 
Psychologically,  the  point  is  delicate ;  it  is  a  queer  para- 
dox that  a  reader  at  once  hates  to  think  and  yet  wants 
to  be  made  to  think.  But  that  is  a  reader's  condition. 
With  equal  readiness  he  will  welcome  climactic  move- 
ment and  continue  to  read,  or  welcome  any  premature 
fall  in  tensity  and  throw  the  story  aside. 

To  show  by  example  the  results  that  may  be 
achieved  by  use  of  the  device  of  movement  to  a  climax 
is  impracticable;  these  matters  that  cannot  be  dis- 
played by  pungent  quotation  the  student  must  dig  out 
for  himself  by  intelligent  reading.  Almost  any  sue- 


58  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

cessful  story  will  display  climactic  arrangement  of  its 
major  events.  I  cannot  forbear  to  mention  the  ascen- 
sion whereby  Thackeray  leads  a  reader  of  "Vanity 
Fair"  up  to  Rawdon  Crawley's  confrontation  of  Becky 
and  Lord  Steyne.  Hawthorne's  "The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables, "  a  book  in  most  respects  so  totally  dissimilar, 
shows  a  like  process  in  leading  up  to  the  death  of 
Judge  Pyncheon.  George  Douglas's  "The  House  With 
the  Green  Shutters,"  less  widely  known,  is  strongly 
climactic  in  its  latter  part.  But  examples,  in  short  story 
and  novel,  are  infinite  in  number  and  sort. 

To  recapitulate,  a  plot  is  a  problem  of  human  life 
brought  to  a  fitting  and  convincing  solution,  and  con- 
sists of  a  series  of  events  which  displays  the  fact  and 
result  of  a  conflict  between  opposing  forces,  spiritual 
and  material,  actuating  and  affecting  men  and  women. 
Therefore  the  chief  characteristic  of  a  plot  is  its  dra- 
matic value.  The  definition  may  be  turned  to  use 
not  so  much  in  the  discovery  of  plots  as  in  appraising 
their  fictional  value,  their  power  to  arouse  and  hold 
a  reader's  interest,  after  they  have  been  found  or 
invented. 

Since  a  plot  is  a  conflict  between  opposing  forces, 
and  since  fiction  deals  with  man,  the  three  fundamental 
plot-themes  are  conflict  between  man  and  his  environ- 
ment, conflict  between  man  and  man,  and  conflict  in 
the  soul  of  the  same  man.  Realization  of  the  fact 
will  serve  to  give  point  and  definition  to  the  writer's 
search  for  the  idea. 

Finally,  a  just  regard  for  his  readers  will  lead  the 
writer  to  cast  his  incidents  into  some  climactic  arrange- 
ment. The  first,  last,  and  only  proper  aim  of  a  story 
is  to  interest,  and  break  in  the  expected  movement  to  a 
climax  is  fatal  to  interest. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  go  into  the  matter  of 
plot-analysis  at  some  length — I  have  in  mind  particu- 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION      59 

larly  the  deficiencies  of  Poe's  definition  that  a  plot  is  a 
series  of  incidents  contrived  to  produce  a  single  effect 
— but  this  book  is  for  the  writer.  I  shall  try  through- 
out to  keep  to  the  writer's  viewpoint  and  to  develop 
nothing  not  of  practical  utility  in  the  work  of  concep- 
tion, elaboration,  and  execution. 

Thus  far  the  discussion  has  been  concerned  with 
plot  as  a  whole ;  it  remains  to  consider  the  events,  inci- 
dents, or  situations  which  compose  a  plot.  The  situa- 
tions of  the  plot  or  story  are  what  its  writer  must  cast 
into  a  climactic  consequence,  and  he  must  have  some 
standard  to  measure  each  before  he  can  determine  its 
proper  place. 

The  fictionally  significant  aspect  of  a  plot  is  that 
it  embodies  a  conflict  between  opposing  forces,  that  is, 
it  is  dramatic.  Likewise,  the  fictionally  significant 
aspect  of  a  situation  is  that  it  displays  opposed  persons 
—or  at  least  opposed  forces — in  conflict.  The  writer 
manipulates  nis  material — preterably  oeiore  writing — 
so  that  two  or  more  persons,  actuated  by  incompatible 
motives,  are  brought  into  conflict;  there  is  a  moment 
of  indecision;  then  some  person  bends  the  other  or 
others  to  his  will;  and  the  situation  determines.  Or 
the  writer  brings  a  character  or  group  of  characters 
into  conflict  with  Nature,  as  did  Harte  in  "The  Out- 
casts of  Poker  Flat."  Here,  also,  there  is  a  period  of 
indecision,  and  then  either  the  human  force  or  the 
natural  force  triumphs. 

The  dramatic  quality  of  any  situation  inheres  in 
the  struggle  between  opposing  forces  which  each  pre- 
sents, and  rises  or  falls  with  the  essential  strength  of 
such  forces.  Take  two  instances  of  conflict  between 
opposed  motives  in  the  same  person.  In  some  humor- 
ous story  a  character  may  be  unable  to  decide  which 
of  two  women  he  wants  to  marry.  One  can  cook,  let 
us  say,  and  he  is  a  gourmand ;  the  other  is  pretty,  and 


60  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

he  has  leanings  that  way,  too.  The  dramatic  quality  in 
such  a  story  will  be  slight,  because  the  motives  involved 
are  relatively  weak,  yet  it  will  be  present.  But  take 
the  story  of  a  French  girl  who  is  outraged  by  a  German 
soldier  and  gives  birth  to  a  child  by  him.  Her  quality 
of  patriotism  can  be  built  up  to  great  intensity,  if  the 
writer  wills,  even  to  the  point  where  the  reader  will 
accept  an  impulse  on  her  part  to  kill  her  child.  Her 
quality  as  a  mother  can  be  built  up  likewise.  It  would 
be  a  most  effective  touch  to  have  her  hate  the  unborn 
child  furiously,  then  to  arrange  matters  so  that  she 
should  be  unable  to  carry,  out  her  first  impulse  to  kill 
it  and  be  forced  to  care  for  it,  giving  it  opportunity  to 
awaken  her  dormant  maternal  instinct.  Finally,  love 
for  France  and  hatred  for  Germany  can  be  stimulated 
again,  so  that  she  is  shown  veering  between  the  im- 
pulse to  kill  and  the  impulse  to  cherish.  Such  a  situa- 
tion is  intensely  dramatic,  for  it  involves  conflict  be- 
tween two  of  the  most  intense  human  qualities,  love 
of  one's  country  and  love  of  one's  child.  The  more 
terrific  the  opposed  forces  in  any  situation,  the  higher 
its  dramatic  value. 

At  first  glance  it  may  seem  that  the  relative  posi- 
tion in  a  story  of  each  of  its  various  major  situations 
is  determined  by  the  plot  itself,  but  that  is  not  the 
case.  It  appears  to  be  the  case  because  it  is  usual  to 
regard  the  plot  of  a  story  as  the  entire  mechanical 
arrangement  of  the  fiction,  including  the  nature  and 
order  of  the  situations,  which  is  a  false  view  of  plot. 
As  the  previous  discussion  has  attempted  to  demon- 
strate, plot  is  merely  the  conflict  between  opposed 
forces  of  personality  and  environment,  at  least  one  of 
the  forces  being  of  personality.  Any  two  stories  which 
display  conflict  between  the  same  forces  have  the  same 
plot,  though  one  may  vary  widely  from  the  other  in 


CONCEPT1VE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION      6.1 

the  means  employed  to  give  the  struggle  objectivity 
and  expression  in  action. 

The  writer  of  fiction  should  realize  the  point.  The 
imagination  produces  concrete  pictures  and  concep- 
tions, and,  when  a  story  is  imagined,  it  will  come  to 
life  in  terms  of  concrete  people  and  events,  more  or 
less  definitely  ordered  and  determined.  But  the  writer 
should  not  stop  there.  He  should  ascertain  just  what 
opposed  forces  of  personality  or  environment  give  the 
story  and  its  situations  plot  and  dramatic  value,  and 
then  should  seek  to  find  whether  he  cannot  give  the 
basic  conflict  involved  more  effective  presentment  than 
will  be  given  by  the  persons  and  situations  which  he 
has  already  conceived.  An  essentially  weak  concep- 
tion may  offer  a  clue  to  a  dramatic  conflict  that  will 
have  fictional  power  if  properly  developed  by  persons 
and  situations  different  from  those  first  conceived. 

It  will  be  perceived  how  far  it  is  within  the 
writer's  power  to  manipulate  situation  in  the  interests 
of  art,  which,  in  this  connection,  means  climax.  Start- 
ing with  some  basic  conflict,  which  will  be  his  plot,  the 
writer  can  devise  situation  after  situation  in  which  the 
struggle  will  become  more  and  more  acute,  until, 
finally,  it  will  become  so  serious  as  to  involve  all  the 
'elements  of  the  story.  And  with  the  determination 
of  the  dramatic  situation  which  involves  all  the  ele- 
ments of  the  story,  the  story  itself  will  terminate,  for 
the  struggle  which  it  embodies  will  have  been  settled 
one  way  or  the  other.  This  final  situation  will  be  the 
climax  of  the  story,  and  its  outcome  or  result  will  be 
the  denouement.  The  story  will  be  ended  because  the 
struggle  or  conflict  it  serves  to  embody  will  have  ended. 
One  force  or  the  other  will  have  triumphed. 

In  considering  the  question  of  situation,  the  writer 
of  fiction  is  considering  a  more  specific  aspect  of  the 
question  of  plot.  Usually  he  desires  to  find  a  plot  of 


62  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

real  dramatic  value,  and  likewise  he  usually  desires 
to  find  a  situation  or  situations  of  real  dramatic  value. 
The  dramatic  value  of  plot  and  of  situation  resides  in 
the  struggle  between  the  opposed  forces  which  it  pre- 
sents. The  more  powerful  the  forces  involved  in  either 
case,  the  greater  the  dramatic  value  of  the  conception. 
Each  major  situation  of  a  story  derives  its  dramatic 
quality  from  the  opposition  of  incompatible  motives  or 
forces  that  endows  the  story's  plot  with  its  dramatic 
Quality.  In  fact,  it  is  not  too  loose  to  say  tnat  the 
situation  of  a  story  is  its  plot,  provided  the  main  situa- 
tion or  climax  is  meant.* 

The  purpose  of  the  action  or  incidents  of  a  story  is 
to  give  the  dramatic  struggle  it  embodies  concrete 
expression.  That  is  to  say.  the  dramatic  Quality  of  a 
story  is  specific  in  relation  to  certain  persons  and  cer- 
tain events.  Two  definite  men,  for  instance,  will  en- 
gage in  a  definite  fight  over  a  definite  woman.  The 
writer  will  seek  to  individualize  the  persons  involved, 
which  is  a  matter  of  description  and  characterization, 
and  he  will  seek  also  to  picture  the  physical  struggle 
as  definitely  as  possible,  which  is  a  matter  of  descrip- 
tive narration.  It  is  not  enough  to  conceive  a  plot  or 
dramatic  situation;  the  writer  must  also  expand  it 
into  a  story,  which  should  be  as  concrete  and  specific 
as  Its  nature  permits.  Only  thus  can  a  reader  be  made 
to  feel  the  essential  power  of  the  whole  conception.  It 
follows  that  the  action  or  incidents  of  a  story  should 
bo  devised  with  a  view  to  express  the  dynamic  ele- 

*Polti.  in  "The  Thirty-Six  Dramatic  Situations,  uses  the 
word  "situation"  in  a  sense  practically  inclusive  of  plot.  Plot  is 
a  wora  so  aousea  that  it  even  might  be  advisible  to  abandon  it 
in  discussion  in  favor  of  situation.  The  latter  suggests  more 
nearly  the  requisite  idea  of  persons  keyed  for  struggle.  In  par» 
ticular,  pioi;  carries  too  many  connotations  of  mere  complica- 
tion, which  is  not  one  of  its  essential  qualities. 


CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE:  PLOT  &  SITUATION      63 

aients  of  the  plot  and  that  no  incident  should  be 
incorporated  in  the  story  unless  it  will  serve  to 
build  up  some  one  of  the  forces  involved  or  else  serve 
to  illustrate  the  conflict  of  forces  that  have  been  built 
up  previously. 


CHAPTER  V 

CONSTRUCTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRA- 
TION* 

Importance — Plot  and  Situation — Spiritual  Values    of    Story — 
Order    of    Events — Introduction — Primary    and    Secondary 
Events — Climax  —  Naturalness  —  The  End  —  Preparation — 
Proportion — General  Considerations. 
A  story  is  the  relation  of  what  certain  persons  did 
in  certain  places  and  under  certain  conditions  of  exist- 
ence, and  in  its  broadest  aspect  the  art  of  narration  in- 
cludes the  description  of  persons  and    delineation    of 
character,  the  depiction  of  scenes,  and  the  suggestion 
of  atmosphere.     But  these  matters  bulk  so   large   in 
themselves  as  to  call  for  separate  treatment.    My  pur- 
pose here  is  to  discuss  constructive  technique,  how  the 
bare  story,  a  succession   and   progression   of   events, 
should  be  planned  and  built  up  before  writing.     The 
problem  is  constructive,  not  executive,  and  should  be 
considered  and  settled,  within  limits,  before  setting 
pen  to  paper. 

In  fact,  much  of  the  technique  of  fiction  writing 

*  In  discussing  the  principles  of  construction  it  is  obviously 
impossible  to  illustrate  the  text  by  quotation,  for  just  construc- 
tion could  be  shown  only  by  reprinting  an  entire  story.  The 
reader  must  supplement  what  is  said  here  by  independent  ana- 
lytical reading.  The  only  fortunate  thing  about  the  situation  is 
that  the  matters  which  can  be  adequately  illustrated  by  brief 
quotations — such  as  vividness  in  narrating — are  chiefly  matters 
of  execution  and  least  subject  to  profitable  objective  study. 

64 


CONSTRUCTIVE   TECHNIQUE   OF   NARRATION       65 

concerns  matters  of  conception  and  construction.  Giv- 
ing the  story  its  verbal  flesh  after  it  is  thoroughly 
mapped  out  in  mind  in  accord  with  the  canons  of 
the  art  is  in  truth  a  more  or  less  simple  matter  to  the 
writer  who  has  any  command  of  language  and  literarv 
facility.  The  result  may  not  be  a  masterpiece — which 
is  a  significant  idea,  justly  elaborated,  and  perfectly 
told — but  it  will  possess  one  of  the  elements  of  a  story 
worthy  to  live.  The  trouble  is  that  so  many  writers 
set  about  the  task  of  expression  when  all  they  have  in 
mind  is  the  merest  germ  of  an  undeveloped  idea  or 
story,  and  then  are  forced  to  wrestle  with  construction 
and  with  language  at  one  and  the  same  time.  Each 
task  is  great  enough  for  the  undivided  attention  of  the 
ablest  artist.  I  believe  that  in  the  end  the  constructive 
task  is  pretty  well  done,  but  that  the  more  strictly  lit- 
erary task  to  give  the  conception  verbally  perfect 
expression  is  usually  somewhat  slighted.  We  have  so 
many  well  conceived  and  elaborated  stories,  and  so  very 
few  so  perfect  in  expression  that  they  deserve  to 
live,  a  fact  indicating  that  construction  can  be 
learned  by  nearly  all,  though  literary  power  seems  to 
be  incommunicable.  The  proper  attitude  for  the  be- 
ginner, who  has  not  the  facile  practice  of  his  art  at  his 
fingers'  ends,  is  to  treat  the  first  draft  of  his  story 
as  merely  tentative  and  an  aid  to  development. 

ORDER  OF  EVENTS 

The  discussion  of  plot  and  situation  in  the  pre- 
ceding chapter  was  pointed  to  emphasize  the  import- 
ance of  the  constructive  phases  of  technique.  A  plot 
is  not  merely  a  climactic  sequence  of  events  or  hapen- 
ings ;  a  plot  is  some  human  struggle,  some  conflict  be- 
tween opposed  forces,  that  finds  concrete  expression  in 
a  climactic  sequence  of  events;  and  an  infinite  number 
5 


66  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

of  persons  and  incidents  may  be  devised  to  give  spe- 
cific expression  to  a  single  fundamental  plot  idea. 
Having  fixed  upon  a  plot,  the  writer  of  fiction  should 
realize  precisely  what  is  the  human  problem  or  strug- 
gle involved,  and  should  consider  just  what  sort  of 
characters  and  just  what  sort  of  incidents  will  give 
most  effective,  most  interesting  expression  to  the  par- 
ticular story  idea.  This  he  should  be  the  more  ready 
to  do  because  a  story  usually  comes  to  mind  ready 
formed  as  a  series  of  events,  and  only  infrequently  is 
the  first  combination  the  best,  that  is,  the  one  which 
will  present  most  forcefully  the  underlying  plot,  strug- 
gle, problem,  or  essential  story  idea.  The  writer  of 
fiction  has  for  material  vast  infinity  of  imaginable 
characters  and  imaginable  events;  he  should  manipu- 
late that  material  to  a  narrowly  specific  end,  the  end 
of  giving  most  effective  expression  to  his  particular 
story  idea  or  plot.  In  other  words,  he  is  an  artist,  and 
must  devise  and  re-devise,  select  and  reject,  arrange 
and  re-arrange  that  with  which  he  deals. 

Another  condition  of  his  art  requires  the  fiction 
writer  to  master  the  technique  of  construction  and  al- 
ways to  practice  it  before  approaching  his  strictly 
executive  task  of  writing.  A  story  is  usually  more 
that  a  mere  physical  spectacle,  more  than  a  sequence 
of  physical  happenings.  Each  event,  each  situation  is 
fictionally  significant  or  interesting  by  virtue  of  its 
relation  to  the  natures  or  spirits  of  the  persons  in- 
volved. Through  the  physical  tissue  of  what  happens 
runs  the  psychical  thread  of  personality,  relating  part 
to  part  and  rendering  the  whole  indeed  one  story.  A 
story  is  a  thing  of  spiritual  values  as  well  as  a  physical 
spectacle,  and  it  cannot  be  written  adequately  by 
visualizing  its  events  and  following  them  with  the  pen. 
Some  part  of  its  spiritual  value  rests  in  necessary 
implication  from  what  happens,  but  not  all.  The  rest 


CONSTRUCTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF   NARRATION       67 

must  be  brought  out  deliberately  by  the  writer,  and 
he  cannot  hope  to  do  so  to  the  full  unless  before  writ- 
ing he  realizes  the  necessity  and  shapes  his  work  ac- 
cordingly. The  point  is  of  very  great  importance.  It 
would  be  hard  to  overestimate  the  number  of  poten- 
tially fine  stories  that  have  been  ruined  through  failure 
to  realize  that  the  main  situations  or  happenings  of 
each  fiction  could  not  have  full  effect  on  a  reader  unless 
many  subtle  matters  of  personality  and  spirit  were 
deliberately  brought  out  in  advance. 

The  first  concern  of  the  writer  who  has  found  his 
bare  story  is  to  determine  the  order  in  which  to  cast 
both  its  major  and  minor  events.  The  necessity  that 
the  more  important  happenings  of  the  story  be  given 
some  climactic  arrangement,  to  hold  and  stimulate  the 
reader's  initial  interest,  has  been  touched  upon  before, 
but  the  general  ordering  of  events  is  a  matter  of  such 
importance  that  it  will  be  discussed  at  length. 

The  aim  of  any  story  is  to  interest,  and  the  writer 
should  endeavor  to  touch  his  reader's  interest  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Long,  purposeless,  and  therefore 
dull  introductions — usually  the  result  of  the  writer's 
having  set  to  work  with  no  very  definite  idea  of  what 
he  has  to  do — should  be  avoided;  the  writer  should 
consider  precisely  what  his  story  is,  and  then  how  he 
may  best  set  it  in  motion  without  delay.  The  tech- 
nique is  easy  to  state  but  hard  to  meet.  Perhaps  it 
may  be  possible  to  set  off  with  a  happening  sufficiently 
unique  and  striking  in  itself  to  arouse  a  reader's  inter- 
est ;  descriptive  touches  as  to  setting  or  as  to  a  charac- 
ter may  be  employed;  or — after  the  fashion  of  some 
modern  writers — one  may  indulge  in  a  little  philisophi- 
cal  overture  forecasting  the  nature  of  the  tale.  A 
classification  of  the  several  ways  to  open  a  story  might 
be  made,  but  it  would  not  be  useful.  In  the  first  place, 
each  good  story  is  perfectly  unique;  in  the  second 


68  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

place,  independent  reading  of  fiction  will  show  the  ways 
much  more  completely  than  mere  statement.  One 
slight  matter  is  perhaps  worth  noting.  Often  inher- 
ently dull  introductory  matter  can  be  given  piquancy  on 
the  lips  of  a  narrating  character. 

The  writer  should  not  distort  his  story  merely  to 
begin  it  interestingly.  The  aim  of  fiction  is  to  interest, 
but  the  person  to  be  interested  is  the  cultured  reader, 
not  the  mere  sensation- sop.  If  a  particular  story  is 
forbidden  by  its  content  to  begin  with  a  rush,  it 
should  not  be  wrenched  and  distorted  to  that  end.  The 
writer  who  seeks  merely  to  cater  to  current  tastes  with 
each  tale  will  do  well  to  devise  fictions  that  will  sub- 
serve his  purpose  naturally.  Thereby  he  will  achieve 
his  aim  the  more  easily,  and  may  spare  the  reading 
public  much  inferior  work.  But  it  is  always  well  to 
make  quite  sure  that  any  story  cannot  be  begun 
swiftly  before  adopting  the  more  leisurely  approach. 
Kipling's  "Without  Benefit  of  Clergy"  might  have  been 
begun  so  much  less  invitingly  by  one  less  skilled. 

The  more  complicated  the  plot,  the  more  difficult 
it  will  be  to  arrange  its  elements  justly.  The  events 
of  the  structurally  simple  story  usually  can  be  related 
in  chronological  order;  one  gives  place  to  the  other 
without  effort  or  preparation.  The  story  with  a  com- 
plicated plot  is  not  so  simple  to  order  justly.  In  the 
structurally  simple  story  nearly  all  events  have  a 
primary  value ;  each  is  a  definite  step  in  the  climactic 
ascension  of  the  whole.  In  the  story  of  complicated 
plot,  on  the  contrary,  there  are  a  comparatively  small 
number  of  events  having  this  primary  value  in  that 
they  are  definite  steps  in  the  climactic  ascension,  and 
there  are  also  a  comparatively  large  number  of  minor 
events  having  only  a  secondary  value  in  that  they  serve 
to  give  the  primary  events  naturalness,  intelligibility. 
and  effect.  Thus,  in  the  story  displaying  the  conflict  of 


CONSTRUCTIVE   TECHNIQUE   OF   NARRATION       69 

two  characters,  the  chief  events  will  be  those  giving  the 
struggle  the  most  intense  expression,  and  the  minor 
events,  having  only  a  secondary  value,  will  be  those 
\vhich  serve  to  prepare  the  various  conflicts  and  to  build 
up  and  vitalize  the  two  opposed  persons.  Even  if  these 
minor  events  are  only  secondary  in  intrinsic  signifi- 
cance, they  are  essential  to  the  story,  and  the  task  of 
its  writer — no  easy  one — is  to  order  its  primary  events 
so  that  they  will  form  a  climactic  ascension  in  point  of 
tensity  and  interest,  and  to  order  its  secondary  events 
so  that  they  will  function  naturally  in  endowing  the 
primary  events  with  the  fullest  measure  of  significance 
to  the  reader. 

Each  story  is  unique  and  characteristic,  and  of 
course  very  little  specific  advice  can  be  given  as  to  the 
just  ordering  of  events,  primary  and  secondary.  There 
are  two  main  necessities;  the  story  must  be  told,  and 
it  must  be  told  plausibly.  The  first  necessity,  that  the 
story  be  told,  requires  that  the  writer  take  care,  not 
only  to  set  forth  its  primary  events  with  due  elabora- 
tion, but  also  to  develop  its  characters  into  individual- 
ized human  beings — an  office  chiefly  performed  by  the 
secondary  events — and  to  make  due  preparation  for 
each  successive  primary  event,  that  the  reader  may 
fully  understand  its  import.  The  second  necessity, 
that  the  story  be  told  plausibly,  requires  that  the 
events  be  ordered  naturally  as  well  as  climactically,  be 
told  in  accordance  with  the  canons  of  life  as  well  as  of 
art.  The  difficult  task  of  the  writer  is  to  picture  his 
single  phase  of  life  so  deftly  and  with  so  little  appar- 
ent forcing  of  his  matter  that  the  whole  will  be  en- 
dowed with  the  significant  simplicity  of  art  and  yet 
have  the  naturalness  of  life.  Of  course  it  is  hard,  and 
of  course  it  takes  long  and  patient  practice  to  conquer 
the  secret.  That  is  why  the  writer  who  has  full  com- 
mand of  technique  is  so  rare. 


70  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

The  story  itself  largely  determines  the  order  of 
its  primary  events,  for  their  succession  is  the  story. 
But  the  secondary  events  are  as  largely  subject  to  the 
control  of  the  writer,  who  may  devise,  adapt,  and  order 
them  almost  at  will,  and  in  just  and  natural  ordering  of 
them  lies  much  of  the  secret  of  verisimilitude.  They 
are  the  mortar  that  binds  the  stones  of  the  edifice,  and 
by  slighting  them  many  a  fine  initial  conception  has 
been  rendered  feeble  in  execution.  They  need  not  be 
elaborately  treated;  in  fact,  the  technique  to  be  ac- 
quired is  to  relate  them  in  due  subordination  to  events 
intrinsically  more  important,  though  giving  them  an 
easy  and  natural  flow  and  succession.  But  the  minor 
events  must  be  ordered  justly,  that  the  story  may 
march  becomingly  from  major  event  to  major  event, 
and  therefore  the  writer  must  struggle  with  their 
ordering.  No  rules  capable  of  statement  regulate 
the  matter ;  the  writer  can  only  be  told  its 
importance  and  urged  not  to  consider  his  story  fully 
developed  and  ready  for  writing  simply  because  he  has 
determined  the  order  of  its  main  events. 

Perhaps  the  whole  philosophy  of  the  ordering  of 
events,  major  and  minor,  can  be  stated  broadly  to  be 
that  in  ordering  the  more  important  events  of  a  story 
the  writer  must  regard  chiefly  the  necessities  of  climax, 
that  is,  of  art,  while  in  ordering  the  secondary  events 
he  must  regard  chiefly  the  necessity  to  be  natural, 
that  is,  to  achieve  verisimilitude.  Art  is  life  raised 
to  a  higher  power,  and  the  struggle  of  the  artist  is  to 
present  his  phase  of  life  as  simply  and  pungently  as 
can  be  done  without  entirely  severing  the  relation  be- 
tween his  conception  and  life  itself. 

One  function  of  the  secondary  events  of  a  story 
is  to  prepare  the  elements  of  the  main  events.  In  the 
love  story,  John  meets  Joan  that  he  may  subsequently 
make  love  to  her.  Another  function  of  the  secondary 


•  CONSTRUCTIVE   TECHNIQUE   OF   NARRATION       71 

events  is  to  develop  character.  In  London's  "The  Sea 
Wolf"  most  of  the  earlier  episodes  and  many  of  the 
later  are  narrated  to  build  up  the  impression  of  Wolf 
Larsen's  ruthlessness.*  It  follows  that  any  minor 
event  will  serve  a  double  purpose  when  devised  and 
placed  so  that  it  will  forward  the  mechanical  progress 
of  the  story  and  also  illustrate  character.  Tarkington, 
in  "Monsieur  Beaucaire,"  begins  the  story  with  a  scene 
over  the  card  table  which  not  only  gives  the  barber- 
prince  his  necessary  introduction  to  society  but  also 
shows  the  stuff  of  which  he  is  made.  In  constructing 
his  story  before  writing,  the  author  should  select  and 
place  each  incident  with  an  eye  to  its  serving  as  many 
purposes  as  possible.  The  story  will  gain  thereby  in 
compactness  and  uniformity  of  interest.  It  is  golden 
advice  to  urge  the  writer  not  to  accept  the  secondary 
events  of  a  story  as  they  first  come  to  mind,  but  to 
re-arrange  and  re-devise  until  each  happening  performs 
as  many  functions  as  the  necessities  of  the  story 
permit. 

There  is  nothing  particularly  new  and  striking 
about  the  main  events  and  situations  of  many  stories 
that  not  only  are  getting  published  to-day,  but  are  truly 
interesting  and  worth  while.  Their  interest — and 
therefore  their  worth — derives  from  their  writers' 
management  of  secondary  events.  By  varying  the 
nature  and  succession  of  minor  events,  any  funda- 
mental plot  theme,  such  as  the  "eternal  triangle"  of 

*  This  story  is  a  particularly  instructive  instance  of  how 
much  the  secondary  events  are  within  the  writer's  control,  and 
also  of  how  much  depends  on  their  just  selection  and  ordering. 
The  twin  plot  themes  of  the  book  are  the  struggle  of  man  with 
man  and  the  struggle  of  man  with  nature;  they  are  developed 
almost  entirely  without  aid  from  the  superficially  main  events 
of  the  story,  Maud's  coming  aboard  the  schooner  and  what  fol- 
lows.    That  is  precisely  the  artistic  defect  of  the  work. 


72  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

two  men  and  a  woman,  may  be  utilized  a  thousand 
times  without  essential  loss  of  interest.  As  has  been 
stated,  the  naturalness  and  plausibility  of  a  story 
depend  largely  upon  just  selection  and  ordering  of 
its  secendary  events,  and,  curiously  enough,  in  a  very 
real  sense  the  reader's  interest  depends  on  the  minor 
happenings.  The  plot  must  be  a  real  plot  and  an  inter- 
esting one,  but,  at  the  last  of  it,  the  plot  is  only  the 
skeleton.  The  minor  events  of  the  story  are  the  comely 
flesh  that  gives  the  conception  the  attraction  and  inter- 
est of  life.  The  figure  may  be  grewsome,  but  it  is  ac- 
curate. A  thousand  skulls  look  much  alike,  but  no 
face  is  precisely  the  same  as  another,  even  to  the  casual 
eye.  The  flesh  makes  the  difference,  and  the  minor 
events  of  a  story  are  its  flesh. 

The  chief  necessity  in  beginning  a  story  is  to  begin 
it  interestingly,  if  its  nature  permits;  the  chief  neces- 
sity in  ending  a  story  is  to  end  it — and  there  is  no  pro- 
viso as  to  its  nature.  A  story  is  a  fiction  with  a  plot, 
and  a  plot  is  a  chain  of  events  with  a  definite  and  sig- 
nificant ending.  The  writer  who  has  discovered  or 
devised  a  true  plot  upon  which  to  hang  his  fiction  will 
not  struggle  on  aimlessly  after  narrating  the  climax, 
for  there  will  be  nothing  more  to  relate.  I  believe  that 
absence  of  true  plot  is  most  often  responsible  for  the 
story  that  stumbles  to  a  lame  and  inconclusive  halt- 
not  an  end — rather  than  executive  inaptitude  on  the 
writer's  part,  for  the  climax  of  a  true  plot  is  a  hard 
thing  not  to  feel  and  realize.  At  any  rate,  when  the 
climax  is  reached  and  the  story  told  it  must  be  ended, 
justly  but  finally.  There  is  nothing  more  for  tKe 
reader,  unless  the  characters  are  caught  in  another 
chain  of  significant  events.  "But  that  is  another 
story." 

To  recapitulate,  a  story  is  a  progression  of  events, 
major  and  minor.  The  story  largely  determines  the 


CONSTRUCTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF   NARRATION       73 

character  and  order  of  its  main  events,  for  they  are 
the  story  itself;  nevertheless  the  writer  should  give 
them  climactic  arrangement,  as  far  as  possible.  The 
minor  events  are  more  subject  to  his  control,  and  he 
should  devise  and  order  them  chiefly  with  an  eye  to 
verisimilitude  and  plausibility,  not  forgetting  that 
each  should  serve  some  definite  purpose  and  will  be  the 
more  useful  if  it  can  be  made  to  serve  more  than  one. 

PREPARATION 

Two  sorts  of  preparation  must  engage  the  atten- 
tion of  the  writer  of  a  story.  The  first  is  purely 
mechanical,  and  is  the  result  of  the  writer's  realization 
of  the  physical  necessities  of  his  story.  If  at  some 
definite  point  the  hero  is  to  be  found  in  some  definite 
place  by  other  characters,  the  writer  must  prepare 
to  place  him  there.  The  necessity  is  obvious,  and 
this  sort  of  preparation  requires  little  discussion, 
except  the  warning  that  in  the  complicated  story  it 
will  demand  close  attention.  But  the  second  sort 
of  preparation  is  a  much  more  delicate  matter,  and 
in  a  sense  is  a  great  part  of  the  art  of  fiction.  I  have 
reference  to  the  necessity  that  the  writer  individualize 
and  vitalize  the  people  of  his  story  so  that  the  signifi- 
cant situations  of  the  fiction  may  have  maximum  effect 
on  a  reader.  The  problem  is  not  so  much  how  to 
delineate  character,  which  will  be  taken  up  later,  as  to 
plan  the  whole  story  so  that  it  will  have  body  and  not 
be  a  mere  report. 

There  are  three  fundamental  types  of  story,  it  is 
true,  in  that  a  story  may  emphasize  any  one  of  its  ele- 
ments of  character,  of  complication  of  incident,  or  of 
atmosphere.  But  the  story  which  depends  for  its  ap- 
peal on  the  novelty  or  intrinsic  significance  of  the  bare 
succession  of  its  events  is  somewhat  rare;  at  least  it 


74  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

is  true  that  fiction  concerns  man  primarily,  and  in  the 
normal  story,  or,  better,  in  the  story  which  the  neces- 
sities of  plot-structure  most  frequently  produce,*  the 
man  is  as  important  as  the  event.  Since  the  person  is 
as  important  as  the  event,  the  persons  involved  in  any 
significant  situation  of  a  story  must  be  developed  as 
well  as  the  situation  itself.  The  aim  is  to  give  the 
situation  maximum  effect,  and  the  concern  of  the 
writer  is  not  so  much  to  develop  character,  strictly,  as 
to  give  the  body  of  reality  to  the  whole  story.  It  is 
about  human  beings,  and,  however  novel  and  inter- 
esting the  plot,  unless  they  are  given  some  of  the 
vivacity  and  concreteness  of  real  men  and  women  the 
fiction  will  be  devoid  of  the  breath  of  life.  The  first 
sort  of  preparation  builds  up  the  physical  situations 
of  a  story ;  the  preparation  now  under  discussion  builds 
up  its  people. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  for  the  beginning 
writer  to  devise  or  discover  an  eminently  worthy  plot 
idea,  and  nothing  is  more  uncommon  than  for  him  lo 
utilize  it  to  the  full  and  develop  it  adequately.  The 
reason  for  the  failure  is  simple.  The  better  the  plot, 
the  more  humanly  significant  its  situations.  They  are 
so  very  significant,  in  the  case  of  the  fine  plot,  that  the 
beginning  writer  is  led  to  think  that  his  only  task  is  to 
outline  them.  But  merely  to  outline  a  significant  situa- 
tion or  event  will  not  give  it  the  emotional  force  that 
fiction  must  possess,  otherwise  the  newspaper  would 
be  read  in  tears.  The  event  must  involve  real  people, 
if  the  emotion  of  a  reader  is  to  be  aroused.  A  news- 
paper item  may  state  that  Mary  Smith  has  committed 
suicide  because  deserted  by  her  lover,  but  though  the 

*  The  three  fundamental  plot  themes  are  man's  struggle 
with  nature,  man's  struggle  with  man,  and  man's  struggle  with 
himself.  The  human  element  is  inherently  a  part  of  any  plot. 


CONSTRUCTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF   NARRATION       75 

casual  reader  will  realize  intellectually  and  abstractly 
the  pathos  of  the  situation,  his  emotion  will  not  be 
stirred  unless  he  is  a  more  sensitive  human  precipitate 
than  most  readers.  To  move  his  heart,  rather  than  his 
mind,  some  particular  Mary  Smith,  like  no  one  else  in 
the  world,  must  walk  a  living  presence  through  the 
story  built  about  such  a  theme.  The  difference  is 
between  merely  reporting  events  and  picturing  life. 

Like  most  other  matters  of  technique,  this  of 
giving  individuality  and  life  to  the  people  of  a  story  is 
based  on  the  necessity  to  achieve  verisimilitude  and 
interest.  Human  life  is  a  great  complex  of  millions  of 
men  and  women  doing  certain  things,  and  in  a  story, 
which  is  a  picture  of  a  phase  of  life,  the  people  must  be 
drawn  with  as  much  definition  and  detail  as  the  events, 
or  the  reader  will  not  accept  the  fiction  as  fictional 
troth. 

In  great  part,  the  matter  of  developing  the  human 
elements  of  a  story  is  a  problem  of  construction,  as  is 
the  matter  of  preparing  a  natural  succession  of 
events.  The  writer  first  must  order  his  main  events  as 
interestingly  and  plausibly  as  possible.  He  then 
must  devise  and  order  his  secondary  events  as  to 
give  the  requisite  spacing  and  naturalness  to  the  whole, 
and  he  also  must  take  care  to  provide  for  such  action 
on  the  part  of  the  characters  that  when  they  come  to 
the  main  events  they  will  be  something  more  than 
named  abstractions.  Of  course,  the  writer  has  means 
at  command  to  vitalize  his  people  other  than  to  draw 
them  in  actions  illustrating  their  peculiarities,  but  it  is 
difficult  enough  at  best  to  vivify  a  character,  and  the 
writer  who  depends  solely  on  his  powers  of  direct 
description  will  achieve  very  meager  results.  I  have 
already  referred  to  the  part  the  secondary  events  of  a 
story  play  in  developing  character,  and  have  cited 
London's  "The  Sea  Wolf"  as  an  instance.  A  great  part 


76  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

of  the  book  is  devoted  to  a  succession  of  episodes  which 
develop  Larsen's  striking  personality.  It  is  very  skill- 
fully done  in  this  respect,  and  the  result  is  as  memor- 
able a  figure  as  exists  in  recent  fiction.  The  beginning 
writer  and  even  the  more  practiced  hand  will  do  well  to 
note  the  great  part  that  just  construction  must  have 
played  in  producing  the  impression  of  the  Wolf's  vir- 
ility and  ruthlessness. 

It  all  may  be  termed  a  matter  of  drawing  charac- 
ter, but  the  necessity  is  to  realize  that  in  constructing 
his  story  before  writing  an  author  must  prepare  for 
the  development  of  its  people  as  well  as  for  the  develop- 
ment of  its  events.  The  work  will  have  to  be  done 
sometime,  if  the  story  is  to  be  more  than  a  report,  and 
it  should  be  done  before  writing,  so  far  as  it  is  a  matter 
of  construction.  The  writer  who  has  conceived  a  plot 
of  real  merit  has  done  much,  but  he  has  not  done  all. 
The  striking  events  of  a  plot  are  significant  only  in 
relation  to  the  people  of  the  story,  and  a  reader  must 
be  made  to  feel  the  reality  of  the  characters  as  well  as 
the  reality  of  the  events.  The  single  concern  of  the 
writer  of  fiction  is  to  lay  on  his  page  a  picture  of  a 
phase  of  life  that  is  effective  because  it  is  plausible, 
and  he  must  give  equal  attention  to  the  persons  of  the 
story  and  to  what  they  do,  both  in  construction  and 
execution.* 

PROPORTION 

In  planning  his  story  with  an  eye  to  giving  it  the 

*  It  would  be  difficult  to  overstate  how  much  of  its  appeal 
such  a  story  as  Fannie  Hurst's  "T.  B.,"  reprinted  in  "The  Best 
Short  Stories  of  1915,"  owes  to  its  author's  careful  development 
of  the  personality  of  Sara  Juke.  Yet  the  story  is  not  strictly 
a  character  story.  In  less  competent  hands  the  bare  story 
would  have  been  nothing;  as  it  is,  it  is  a  fiction  of  real  worth 
and  significance. 


CONSTRUCTIVE   TECHNIQUE   OF   NARRATION       77 

greatest  semblance  of  reality,  the  writer  has  one  means 
ready  to  his  hand  which  is  the  more  useful  because 
somewhat  mechanical.  I  have  reference  to  the  preser- 
vation of  proportion. 

Fundamentally,  proportion  is  a  mere  matter  of  space 
or  length.  In  real  life  events  vary  in  point  of  the  time 
they  take  to  happen,  and  in  the  story  proportion  may  be 
preserved  by  dividing  the  available  space  justly  be- 
tween the  several  events.  Normally  a  love  scene  will 
take  longer  to  happen  than  a  murder,  which  is  an  affair 
of  one  high-pitched  moment,  and  in  planning  and  writ- 
ing a  story  which  contains  both  a  love  scene  and  a  mur- 
der a  proper  amount  of  space  should  be  assigned  to 
each.  In  the  story  the  reader  passes  through  days  in 
an  hour  and  through  hours  in  a  minute ;  he  must  not  be 
made  to  pass  through  minutes  in  an  hour,  and  through 
hours  of  events  as  important  to  the  story  in  a  minute. 
A  murder  may  be  more  important  in  the  story  than  a 
love  scene,  and  so  require  emphasis,  but  it  cannot  be 
stressed  by  great  expansion  without  violating  propor- 
tion. Emphasis  must  be  laid  by  narrating  vividly,  a 
matter  to  be  taken  up  in  its  proper  place  when  discuss- 
ing executive  technique. 

The  mere  fact  that  the  writer  must  narrate  the 
main  events  of  his  story  in  some  detail  usually  will  lead 
him  unconsciously  to  preserve  proportion  so  far  as  they 
are  concerned.  The  space  necessary  to  develop  a  mur- 
der will  have  roughly  the  same  relation  to  the  space 
necessary  to  develop  a  love  scene  as  the  duration  of  a 
real  murder  has  to  the  duration  of  a  real  love  scene. 
But  the  minor  events  of  a  story  function  on  a  different 
plane  from  its  major  happenings,  and  so  cannot  be  pro- 
portioned similarly.  If  a  murderer  must  sail  from 
London  to  New  York  to  reach  his  victim — either  on 
account  of  the  place  necessities  of  the  story,  or  to 
fasten  an  impression  of  his  animosity  on  the  reader — 


78  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

the  minutes  of  the  days  of  the  voyage  cannot  be  related 
with  as  much  detail  as  the  minutes  of  the  actual  killing. 
In  planning  a  story,  the  writer  should  make  provision 
for  the  secondary  events  and  the  strict  matter  of 
transition,  as  well  as  for  the  main  events,  but  he  should 
not  plan  to  narrate  in  detail  until  a  main  event  is 
reached.  The  beginning  writer  seems  very  often  to  be 
afraid  to  narrate  in  general  terms,  even  where  the 
story  demands  no  detail,  and  the  fault  probably  arises 
from  a  vague  feeling  that  the  reader  will  not  accept 
the  author's  say-so,  but  must  be  "shown."  To  an 
extent,  that  is  true.  However,  where  the  matter  is  of 
transition,  merely  to  forward  the  mechanical  progress 
of  the  story,  detailed  narration  is  distortion.  It  will 
inevitably  cause  loss  of  suspense  and  interest. 

Realization  of  the  relative  importance  to  the  story 
of  each  of  its  parts  will  give  the  writer  the  standard 
whereby  to  distribute  its  space.  In  writing  the  short 
story  the  preservation  of  proportion  is  most  essential ; 
there  is  so  little  space  at  hand  that  two  words  cannot 
be  wasted  in  detailed  narration  where  more  general 
narration  will  suffice,  and  it  all  comes  under  the  read- 
er's eye  so  nearly  at  one  moment  that  any  disproportion 
in  the  treatment  of  events  of  equal  importance  will  be 
detected.  In  the  novel,  lack  of  proportion  may  be  a 
more  secret  fault,  but  it  will  have  its  effect. 

GENERAL  CONSIDERATIONS 

In  casting  about  for  a  story  the  writer  should  regard 
chiefly  the  intrinsic  merits  of  each  idea  that  comes  to 
him.  But  when  he  has  pitched  upon  his  theme  or  plot, 
and  approaches  the  task  of  construction  and  elabora- 
tion, he  should  change  his  viewpoint  and  strive  to  view 
his  conception  with  the  cold  eye  of  a  reader.  A 
reader  has  nothing  to  go  upon  except  wl^at  the  writer 


CONSTRUCTIVE    TECHNIQUE   OF   NARRATION        79 

sets  down,  and  realization  of  the  fact  will  lead  the 
writer  in  construction  to  provide  for  every  matter 
essential  to  give  the  story  full  appeal.  Unless  it  is 
developed  completely,  it  will  fail  to  impress  one  who 
has  no  knowledge  of  the  conception  except  that  impart- 
ed by  the  writer's  words.  Nothing  essential  can  be 
omitted  or  slighted  without  risking  failure.  On 
the  other  hand,  nothing  unessential  can  be  brought 
out  without  obscuring  the  real  story.  Careful 
construction  and  elaboration  of  the  initial  idea  is  neces- 
sary before  writing,  that  the  author  may  have  his 
hands  free  for  the  difficult  task  of  execution,  and  in 
construction  the  writer  should  occupy  the  detached 
position  of  a  reader  when  estimating  what  should  be 
developed  and  what  suppressed. 


CHAPTER  VI 
EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION 

Mode  of  Narration — First  Person  Narration — Variation — Ad- 
vantages— Disadvantages — Plausibility — Third  Person  Nar- 
ration— Advantages — Avoidance  of  Artificiality — Considera- 
tion of  Length — Maintenance  and  Shifting  of  Viewpoint — 
Attitude  of  Author — Style — Product  of  Technique — Congru- 
ity  of  Manner — Story  of  Action — Fantasy — Story  of  Char- 
acter. 

After  conceiving  and  elaborating  his  story,  the 
writer  must  approach  the  task  of  expression.  The  two 
preliminary  matters  to  be  settled  are  the  mode  of. 
narration  and  the  manner  or  style  for  which  the  story 
calls.  Though  preliminary,  they  are  most  properly 
treated  as  part  of  executive  technique. 

MODE  OF  NARRATION 

The  question  of  how  the  story  may  be  told  most 
easily  and  effectively  is  much  more  delicate  than  merely 
to  choose  between  narration  in  the  first  or  third  per- 
son, for  numerous  variations  in  these  two  basic  meth- 
ods are  open  to  adoption.  Each  method  or  viewpoint 
has  its  advantages  and  disadvantages,  and  that  method 
should  be  chosen  which  most  nearly  suits  the  particu- 
lar story. 

Variation  in  first  person    narration — the    typical 
80 


EXECUTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  81 

form  of  which  is  to  have  a  chief  character  tell  his  own 
story — is  possible  by  shifting  the  story  from  the  lips 
of  a  major  character  to  those  of  a  less  important  per- 
sonage, who  is  often  little  more  than  an  animated 
mouthpiece.  The  device  is  really  an  attempt  to  escape 
from  the  inherent  disadvantages  of  typical  first  person 
narration.  A  just  regard  for  the  reader  often  requires 
that  more  be  set  forth  than  any  major  character 
could  naturally  know,  but  some  minor  character  may 
be  made  to  pass  ubiquitously  through  the  whole  tale, 
viewing  the  essential  acts  of  all  the  major  characters 
and  relating  them  to  the  reader.  Or  the  device  may  be 
carried  farther,  and  the  story  told  in  the  first  person 
by  a  succession  of  characters. 

The  chief  advantage  in  first  person  narration  by  an 
important  or  the  most  important  character  lies  in  the 
fact  that  the  reader  is  accustomed  to  a  more  or  less 
one-sided  presentation  of  events.  That  is  the  way  he 
sees  things  himself,  as  a  bare  succession  of  happenings 
springing  from  the  conflict  of  human  motives  of  which 
he  can  be  sure  only  of  his  own.  Something  happens, 
and  he  knows  within  limits  why  he  did  his  part  in 
bringing  it  about,  but  the  part  of  the  other  man  is 
obscure  to  him,  and  he  can  go  only  on  conjecture  and 
inference.  So  the  story  told  in  the  first  person  has 
perhaps  a  slightly  greater  flavor  of  plausibility  than 
that  told  in  the  third  person. 

There  is  another  advantage  in  first  person  narra- 
tion. Some  stories  cannot  be  launched  with  a  rush; 
the  significant  action  must  be  prefaced  by  a  consider- 
able mass  of  introductory  matter  that  is  essential  to 
full  understanding  of  subsequent  events;  and  this 
introductory  matter  can  often  be  made  less  repellent 
to  the  reader  when  it  is  artfully  introduced  by  a  narrat- 
ing character.  The  speaking  character  can  be  made  to 
tell  his  story  with  a  smack  of  personality  that  appears 


82  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

somewhat  affected  and  flippant  when  the  writer  em- 
ploys the  third  person.  This  flippancy  and  affectation 
is  apparent  is  some  of  Kipling's  and  0.  Henry's  work, 
and  probably  repels  as  many  as  it  attracts. 

Generally,  throughout  a  story,  first  person  narra- 
tion makes  easier  the  attainment  of  uniformity  of  style, 
if  that  be  a  merit  in  the  case  of  all  stories  as  it  un- 
questionably is  in  the  case  of  the  short  story,  with  its 
necessary  emphasis  on  all  formal  unities.  During  the 
vogue  of  the  historical  novel  some  years  ago  this  mode 
of  narration  was  ridden  to  death  simply  because  it  les- 
sens for  the  writer  the  labor  of  catching  what  he  con- 
ceives to  be  the  tone  of  the  particular  society  he  is  por- 
traying. As  to  the  general  matter  of  tone,  Stevenson 
refers,  in  a  letter,  to  "The  Ebb  Tide/'  as  "a  dreadful, 
grimy  business  in  the  third  person,  where  the  strain 
between  a  vilely  realistic  dialogue  and  a  narrative  style 
pitched  about  (in  phrase)  'four  notes  higher'  than  it 
should  have  been  has  sown  my  head  ^-ith  grey  hairs." 
Had  the  story  been  told  by  one  of  the  characters  there 
would  have  been  no  difficulty  of  the  sort. 

"The  Ebb  Tide"  probably  could  not  have  been  told 
effectively  in  the  first  person,  for  much  of  its  power 
derives  from  the  way  in  which  Stevenson  limns  the 
lovely  South  Pacific  scenes  through  which  its  poor  lost 
derelicts  of  people  move.  Their  speach  is  "vilely  real- 
istic" because  they  are  common  men,  sea  captain  and 
clerk  and  middle-class  Englishman,  and  the  lips  of  no 
one  of  them  could  have  been  made  to  state  effectively 
without  distortion  what  his  eyes  saw.  Any  story  has 
certain  matters  which  must  be  brought  out  justly  if 
the  whole  is  to  have  due  effect,  and  if  first  person  nar- 
ration renders  it  impossible  to  treat  such  matters 
justly  that  mode  of  narration  cannot  be  used.  The 
example  of  "The  Ebb  Tide"  shows  that  in  estimating 
the  availability  of  narration  in  the  first  person  the 


EXECUTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  83 

writer  must  consider  that  the  very  nature  and  being 
of  a  character  may  seal  his  eyes  to  many  matters. 
Moreover,  the  reader  will  not  readily  accept  in  a  nar- 
rating character  the  literary  power  that  is  even  ex- 
pected in  the  author  writing  in  the  third  person.  A 
story  is  a  whole,  its  people  existing  subject  to  the 
limitations  of  its  necessities,  and  the  mode  of  narra- 
tion must  function  naturally  with  the  rest,  and  not 
demand  impossibilities. 

One  difficulty  of  first  person  narration  is  not  so 
much  fictional  as  psychological.  If  the  story  demands 
emphasis  upon  the  good  qualities  of  the  narrator,  his 
bravery,  devotion,  love,  generosity,  or  a  thousand 
others,  a  reader  will  soon  weary  of  the  eternal  I.  It 
is  safe  to  say  that  if  a  character  must  be  shown  in  a 
strongly  favorable  light,  let  it  be  done  by  the  author 
or  some  other  character,  not  by  himself,  unless  the 
moral  perfection  of  the  person  is  a  matter  solely  of 
inference  from  his  acts. 

The  very  complicated  plot  can  rarely  be  handled 
well  in  the  first  person,  particularly  if  the  events  can- 
not be  cast  in  chronological  order.  On  the  other  hand, 
first  person  narration  is  often  a  useful  device  to'  keep 
from  the  reader's  knowledge,  unobtrusively  and  with- 
out seeming  effort,  matters  which  he  must  not  learn 
prematurely.  Conan  Doyle's  Watson  is  an  instance. 
Thus  the  chief  disadvantage  in  employing  the  narrat- 
ing character,  that  he  cannot  be  made  omniscient,  may 
be  turned  to  advantage.  The  whole  question  is  one  to 
be  determined  only  after  careful  consideration  of  the 
demands  of  a  particular  story,  and  the  chief  need  is 
not  so  much  to  state  rules  for  its  solution  as  to  point 
out  the  real  necessity  that  the  writer  know  what  he  is 
about  before  pitching  on  a  mode  of  narration.  It  is  a 
prevalent  habit,  and  a  bad  one,  to  accept  a  story  as  it 
first  takes  shape  in  the  mind,  narrative,  point  of  view, 
and  all. 


84  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

There  is  a  tendency  among  writers  of  fiction,  par- 
ticularly those  who  are  just  beginning,  to  narrate  in 
the  first  person,  perhaps  because  they  feel  that  the 
reader  will  accept  the  story  more  readily  in  such  shape. 
Other  things  being  equal,  first  person  narration  is  a 
trifle  more  natural  and  plausible  than  narration  in  the 
third  person,  but  its  limitations  are  much  more  strict. 
At  the  last  of  it,  readers  are  so  thoroughly  habituated 
to  the  impersonal  viewpoint  that  a  writer  does  not 
gain  much  in  power  to  convince  by  adoption  of  the 
other.  A  story  is  taken  up  because  a  story  is  wanted, 
and  a  reader  is  willing  to  accept  the  conventions  of 
the  art.  So  incredible  a  fiction  as  Poe's  "A  Descent  into 
the  Maelstrom"  was  probably  best  told  in  the  first  per- 
son, but  the  average  story  need  not  strain  so  sedulously 
for  verisimilitude  so  far  as  the  mechanics  of  narration 
are  concerned. 

Typical  third  person  narration  is  illustrated  by  the 
story  of  action,  the  wholly  objective  story,  told  in  the 
third  person.  The  impersonal  relator  is  omniscient,  but 
his  omniscience  is  not  so  obtrusive  as  in  the  story  that 
touches  on  the  facts  of  the  soul.  This  omniscience  of 
the  relator  is  the  chief  advantage  of  third  person 
narration,  but  the  writer  will  only  infrequently  find  it 
advisable  to  assume  omniscience  absolute  and  entire, 
involving  knowledge  of  all  the  objective  acts  and  the 
subjective  motives  of  all  the  characters.  If  the  story 
is  largely  analytical  of  more  than  one  chaoctrer  the 
writer  may  be  forced  to  "know  it  all"  in  ordei  to  dis- 
play his  material.  But  omniscience  carried  to  such  a 
point  tends  to  be  over-artificial,  the  underlying  cause  ot 
much  of  the  artistic  weakness  of  the  story  which  lays 
bare  the  souls  of  all  charactcers  instead  of  one  or  two 
of  the  most  significant.  In  his  own  daily  life  the  reader 
is  accustomed  to  a  one-sided  presentation  of  the  social 
spectacle,  and  complete  omniscience  on  the  part  of  the 


EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  85 

impersonal  relator  of  a  fiction  has  the  taint  of  arti- 
ficiality, or  even  of  bare  exposition.  And  exposition, 
which  implies  a  mathematically  complete  presentation, 
is  not  fiction,  which  implies  shading  and  suppression, 
absolute  or  temporary. 

Any  suggestion  of  artificiality  may  be  entirely 
avoided,  and  the  frequently  necessary  advantages  of 
third  person  narration  retained,  by  assuming  omnis- 
cience as  to  all  the  physical  facts  or  events  of  the  story 
while  rejecting  omniscience  as  to  the  souls  of  the  char- 
acters, except  the  souls  of  one  or  a  few.  Thus  the 
writer  may  escape  the  inherent  limitation  of  first  per- 
son narration,  that  the  story  is  told  by  a  character  of 
definite  powers  and  knowledge,  and  retain  the  chief 
advantage  of  that  mode  of  narration,  the  more  or  less 
single  viewpoint,  corresponding  with  a  reader's  own 
outlook  on  life  and  its  happenings.  This  hybrid  method 
of  narration  utilizes  the  virtues  and  rejects  the  vices 
of  the  two  strict  types.  By  telling  his  story  in  the 
third  person,  but  from  the  viewpoint  of  one  or  two  of 
the  chief  characters,  an  author  may  assume  the  desir- 
able omniscience  as  to  objective  facts  and  the  desirable 
limitation  upon  knowledge  as  to  subjective  motives. 
This  is  not  to  say  that  the  nature  of  a  particular  story 
may  not  call  for  strict  first  or  third  person  narration; 
it  is  merely  a  suggestion  that  the  virture  cf  each  type 
may  be  utilized  at  once.  Each  story  makes  certain 
demands,  and  the  writer  is  not  confined  to  two  means 
of  satisfying  them. 

A  reader  of  any  catholicity  of  taste  can  recall 
numerous  examples  of  the  various  modes  of  narration, 
and  in  future  reading  it  will  be  directly  profitable  for 
the  writer  to  note  the  narrative  device  employed,  and 
how  it  has  aided  or  hampered  the  development  of  the 
fiction. 

More  extreme  devices  have  been,  and  may  be  em- 


86  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITTNG 

ployed,  such  as  Richardson's  of  telling  a  story  in  a 
series  of  letters.  They  are  curious  rather  than  im- 
portant. 

In  estimating  the  availability  of  a  mode  of  narra- 
tion the  writer  should  consider  the  matter  of  length. 
The  adoption  of  the  omniscent  viewpoint  may  carry 
the  story  unnecessarily  beyond  due  limits,  for  the 
writer  who  has  taken  to  himself  the  privilege  to  know 
all  facts  and  motives  may  be  led  into  depicting 
events  or  analyzing  character  for  his  own  pleasure, 
rather  than  because  the  story  demands  it.  If  a  story 
demands  space,  space  it  must  have,  but  the  es- 
sence of  literary  power  and  artistry  is  to  write  with 
the  utmost  brevity  and  pungency  compatible  with 
adequate  expression.  The  story  must  be  told;  every 
essential  phase  must  be  brought  out;  but  unsignificant 
words  can  only  do  their  bit  toward  spoiling  the  desired 
effect.  The  adoption  of  a  too  inclusive  mode  of  narra- 
tion may  lead  the  writer  astray ;  conversely,  the  mode 
of  narration  most  nearly  suited  to  the  necessities  of 
his  story  will  aid  in  holding  his  pen  to  the  line.  If 
the  story  is  of  action,  unconcerned  with  motives  save 
by  implication,  and  the  writer  tells  it  in  the  first  per- 
son, or  in  the  third  person  from  the  viewpoint  of  a 
single  character,  he  will  be  led  to  confine  himself  to  the 
depiction  of  the  panorama  of  events,  which  is  the  work 
in  hand.  Yet,  if  the  story  requires  that  the  reader 
be  given  a  direct  view  of  the  spiritual  workings  of 
large  numbers  of  characters,  the  writer  must  tell  it  in 
the  third  person  and  assume  universal  knowledge  as  to 
event  and  spirit.  A  mode  of  narration  must  be  deliber- 
ately selected  for  each  new  story  with  due  regard  to 
its  idiosyncracies,  and  to  make  the  choice  correctly 
cannot  fail  to  be  of  great  advantage. 

It  is  often  stated  that  having  settled  upon  what  is 
most  narrowly  termed  a  mode  of  narration  and  most 


EXECUTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  87 

broadly  a  viewpoint  the  writer  should  be  sedulous  not 
to  depart  from  it.  The  writer  of  the  short  story  should 
not  alter  the  narrative  point  of  view,  for  obvious  rea- 
sons. The  short  story  is  short ;  it  depends  for  its  power 
upon  dramatic  effect;  and  in  writing-  it  there  is  no 
occasion  or  excuse  for  any  shifting  of  outlook.  The 
short  story  is  artistically  the  strictest  form  of  prose 
fiction,  that  is,  it  is  most  strictly  subject  to  the  con- 
ventions of  the  art  of  fiction,  of  which  mainte- 
nance of  the  point  of  view  is  one.  But  the  novel  is  a 
much  looser  form,  and  unless  the  particular  story  is 
uniquely  uniform  in  texture,  as  the  frank  tale  of  ad- 
venture, shifting  the  point  of  view  often  will  prove 
necessary. 

If  the  author  of  a  novel  has  chosen  to  write  with 
knowledge  of  the  inner  workings  of  more  than  one  of 
the  characters,  but  not  with  knowledge  of  all,  so  that 
he  relates  from  the  viewpoint  of  several  characters, 
rather  than  the  viewpoint  of  some  impersonal  observer 
to  whom  the  souls  of  all  are  open,  numerous  shifts  of 
viewpoint  will  be  necessary.  They  are  implied  in  the 
mode  of  narration  itself.  The  world  cannot  be  looked 
at  through  the  eyes  and  souls  of  a  succession  of  char- 
acters without  a  succession  of  shifts.  All  this  merely 
amounts  to  saying  that  certain  modes  of  narration 
which  cannot  be  employed  in  writing  the  strict  short 
story  may  be  freely  employed  in  writing  the  novel.  In 
the  case  of  the  novel,  or  of  the  story  that  is  somewhat 
brief  without  being  a  strict  short  story,  the  task  is  not 
so  much  never  to  shift  the  viewpoint,  .rather  always 
to  indicate  the  shift  with  clearness.  Just  as  the  read- 
er's interest  should  be  the  first  consideration  in  choos- 
ing matter  and  devising  a  plot,  clarity  to  the  reader 
must  be  considered  when  any  shift  in  the  narrative 
point  of  view  becomes  necessary.  Let  the  shift  be 
avowed  and  obvious;  any  uncertainty  can  lead  only  to 
confusion. 


88  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

It  follows  that  writers  who  have  chosen  to  tell 
their  stories  from  the  viewpoints  of  several  characters 
will  prove  the  most  profitable  for  study  as  to  how 
to  shift  viewpoint  without  confusing  a  reader. 
Chiefly,  of  course,  they  are  novelists,  Eliot,  Balzac, 
Hardy,  Scott,  and  an  infinity  of  lesser  lights.  Gals- 
worthy, for  instance,  in  each  of  his  chapters  succeeds 
in  producing  a  singular  unity  of  effect,  with  corres- 
ponding clarity  for  the  reader,  chiefly  by  making  his 
shifts  of  viewpoint  coincide  with  shifts  of  scene  and 
person.* 

Inextricably  bound  up  with  the  mode  of  narration 
and  the  general  narrative  viewpoint  of  the  story  is 
the  matter  of  the  author's  own  attitude  toward  the 
story.  The  distinction  between  these  matters  is  fine, 

*  I  will  note  here  a  matter  suggested  rather  than  stated 
by  the  general  discussion,  which  is  intended  to  be  practical 
rather  than  philosophical.  Narration  must  be  in  the  first  or 
third  person,  but  the  two  fundamental  types  are  personal  and 
impersonal  narration,  and  the  line  between  them  is  not  drawn 
by  the  pronouns  I  and  he.  Truly,  when  the  story  is  told  in  the 
first  person,  the  writer  adopts  the  personal  viewpoint  of  the 
narrating  character,  but  when  the  writer  chooses  to  write  in 
the  third  person  he  also  adopts  the  personal  viewpoint  of  the 
character  of  whose  soul  he  assumes  knowledge,  if  he  does  so  as 
to  the  soul  of  only  one.  This  is  the  case,  with  a  shifting  per- 
sonal viewpoint,  when  the  writer  assumes  knowledge  of  the 
minds  and  souls  of  several  characters,  but  not  of  all.  Assuming 
knowledge  of  the  soul  of  a  character  necessarily  involves  look- 
ing at  the  world  through  his  eyes.  It  results  that  the  only  real 
impersonal  viewpoint  is  to  write  in  the  third  person  and  either 
to  renounce  all  knowledge  of  motives  or  to  assume  knowledge 
of  all  events  and  the  spirits  of  all  the  characters,  when  the 
reader  will  gain  the  impression  of  an  impersonal  relator  rather 
than  of  a  shifting  personal  viewpoint.  The  point  is  of  no  great 
importance,  but  realization  of  it  may  be  of  some  slight  service. 
In  particular,  if  the  story  is  told  in  the  third  person,  but  from  the 
viewpoint  of  a  single  major  character,  universal  knowledge  of 
events  cannot  be  assumed. 


EXECUTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  89 

but  real.  It  is  possible  that  a  given  story  may  be  told, 
adequately  so  far  as  the  bare  story  is  concerned,  in  any 
one  of  several  different  ways.  Narration  in  the  first 
person  by  a  major  or  a  minor  character  may  be  em- 
ployed, or  the  author  may  write  in  the  third  person, 
assuming  knowledge  of  all  events  and  of  the  inner 
workings  of  one,  some,  or  all  of  the  characters.  But 
there  is  another  consideration.  The  whole  conception 
may  depend  for  its  appeal  upon  what  I  am  forced  to 
call  very  roughly  sympathy  for  a  character  or  group  of 
characters,  and  a  mode  of  narration  must  be  employed 
which  will  enable  the  author  to  express  his  sympathy 
that  he  may  evoke  the  reader's. 

I  do  not  wish  to  shift  the  discussion  into  the  field 
of  ethics,  but  the  point  is  that  any  chain  of  events  may 
be  colored  in  the  telling  favorably  or  unfavorably  to 
the  persons  concerned.  A  coarse  instance  is  afforded 
by  a  prosecution  for  crime.  In  making  their  final  argu- 
ments to  the  jury,  prosecuting  attorney  and  attorney 
for  the  defense  alike  deal  with  the  same  facts  in  evi- 
dence, but  on  the  lips  of  one  the  defendant  will  be  a 
be  a  glorified  and  persecuted  saint.  A  more  delicate 
instance  is  afforded  by  Stevenson's  'The  Ebb  Tide," 
previously  mentioned.  Robert  Herrick  commits  all  the 
criminal  acts  committed  by  Huish,  the  cockney  clerk, 
except  to  attempt  murder,  but  the  reader  pities  Her- 
rick while  hating  Huish.  This  is  so  because  Stevenson 
writes  of  Herrick  with  a  measure  of  sympathy,  and 
tells  the  story,  though  in  the  third  person,  almost  en- 
tirely from  his  point  of  view.  But  of  Huish  we  have 
only  his  acts  and  words.  The  treatment  of  him  is 
wholly  objective. 

The  story  which  develops  a  chain  of  events  tend- 
ing to  show  a  character  or  group  of  characters  in  a 
strongly  unfavorable  light. should  not  be  told  too 
objectively,  or  the  reader  will  be  repelled  by  its  uni- 


90  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

form  ugliness,  a  matter  which  must  be  considered  in 
choosing  a  mode  of  narration.  It  is  not  a  point  of 
morals,  but  one  of  contrast.  If  the  writer  has  no  sym- 
pathy for  one  or  some  of  his  people,  or  writes  in  such 
manner  that  he  cannot  express  any  predilection,  they 
will  appear  all  of  a  piece  to  a  reader,  with  a  consequent 
loss  of  interest.  In  this  very  real  sense  the  story  whose 
characters  are  uniformly  repellent  may  be  said  to  be 
bad  art. 

Generally,  therefore,  the  writer  must  consider  the 
necessities  of  his  story  in  determining  the  mode  of 
narration,  and  must  also  consider  his  own  attitude  to- 
ward its  people  and  their  doings.  Its  appeal  to  him 
may  lie  in  his  sympathy  for  some  person  or  persons, 
and  unless  that  sympathy  be  given  expression  in  some 
way  the  story  may  not  have  an  equal  appeal  to  a 
reader.  The  perfect  fiction  is  a  congruous  expression  of 
a  phase  of  life,  and  in  it  the  more  subtle  matters  of 
life,  sympathy  and  predilection  have  their  place. 

STYLE 

The  term  style  has  been  so  exclusively  used  to  de- 
note an  author's  style  in  general,  rather  than  the  style 
of  some  particular  work,  unlike  the  styles  of 
others  by  the  same  hand,  that  it  is  apt  to  suggest 
something  different  from  what  is  meant  by  its  use 
here.  To  show  the  distinction  I  cannot  do  better  than 
to  quote  from  Stevenson's  "A  Note  on  Realism." 

"Usually  in  all  works  of  art  that  have  been  con- 
ceived from  within  outwards,  and  generously  nourished 
from  the  author's  mind,  the  moment  in  which  he  begins 
to  execute  is  one  of  extreme  perplexity  and  strain. 
Artists  of  indifferent  energy  and  an  imperfect  devo- 
tion to  their  own  ideal  make  this  ungrateful  effort 
once  for  all;  and,  having  formed  a  style,  adhere  to  it 


EXECUTIVE   TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  91 

through  life.  But  those  of  a  higher  order  cannot  rest 
content  with  a  process  which,  as  they  continue 
to  employ  it,  must  infallibly  degenerate  towards 
the  academic  and  the  cut-and-dried.  Every  fresh 
war  in  which  they  embark  is  the  signal  for  a 
fresh  engagement  of  the  whole  forces  of  their  mind; 
and  the  changing  views  which  accompany  the  growth 
of  their  experience  are  marked  by  still  more  sweeping 
alterations  in  the  manner  of  their  art.  So  that  criti- 
cism loves  to  dwell  upon  and  distinguish  the  varying 
periods  of  a  Raphael,  a  Shakespeare,  or  a  Beethoven." 

In  the  case  of  Stevenson  himself  this  process  is 
especially  manifest.  With  a  unique  earnestness  he 
sought  from  the  first  to  adapt  his  manner  to  his  mat- 
ter, and,  since  he  grew  with  the  years,  each  new  tale 
concerns  itself  with  matter  a  little  more  humanly  sig- 
nificant than  its  predecessor,  and  is  told  in  keeping 
therewith.  The  result  is  that  such  stories  as  "The  New 
Arabian  Nights"  series,  fantastically  conceived,  fan- 
tastically told,  give  place  to  'The  Master  of  Ballentrae," 
"The  Ebb  Tide,"  and  "Weir  of  Hermiston,"  fictions 
worthy  in  every  sense,  the  last,  indeed,  an  unfinished 
masterpiece.  And  with  each  new  story  the  author's 
style  gains  in  dignity  and  restraint,  in  the  process  of 
adaptation  to  the  work.  I  mention  Stevenson  in  this 
connection  not  because  he  is  greater  than  many  others, 
nor  his  work  finer,  but  because  its  range  was  so  wide 
that  it  called  for  many  manners  or  styles.  All  will 
prove  a  profitable  study,  for  they  are  all  Stevenson's 
and  yet  all  different.  Writers  who  have  been  some- 
what more  narrow  in  choice  of  matter  have  not  been 
under  so  pressing  a  necessity  to  vary  their  manner  with 
each  new  work. 

Possibly  it  is  unwise  to  emphasize  the  matter  of 
style  at  all  when  writing  for  the  apprentice  author. 
Telling  the  story  is  usually  task  enough,  and  style  in 


92  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

general  is  a  product  rather  than  an  item  of  technique, 
therefore  best  sought  indirectly.  But  even  if  the 
more  delicate  tones  and  shadings  possible  in  writing 
are  beyond  the  reach  of  all  save  the  most  skilled, 
preservation  of  the  broader  congruities  of  manner  is 
possible  by  the  beginner,  and  must  be  achieved  if  his 
work  is  to  be  even  passable.  Such  a  story  as  "The 
Scarlet  Letter"  could  not  have  been  told  in  Dickens' 
usual  manner,  nor  could  "The  Pickwick  Papers"  have 
been  written  in  the  style  of  Meredith.  The  manner  of 
telling  any  story  must  be  reasonably  adapted  to  its 
content,  or  the  whole  will  be  a  shabby  burlesque,  des- 
tined never  to  achieve  the  laurel  of  print.  The  writer 
need  not  fret  about  his  individual  style,  but  he  should 
ponder  seriously  the  manner  for  which  each  story  calls. 

The  story  chiefly  of  action  is  best  told  without 
great  verbal  elaboration,  which  is  unnecessary  and 
tends  only  to  hinder  the  march  of  events.  The  whole 
thing  is  an  objective  presentation,  and  the  open  charac- 
ter of  its  elements  renders  unnecessary  laborious  and 
involved  explanation.  The  bare  facts  carry  their  own 
warrant  openly  displayed,  and  when  they  are  shown 
the  task  is  done.  Sentences  will  tend  to  be  a  trifle 
shorter  than  in  other  work,  and  paragraphs  likewise. 
The  writer's  chief  aim  will  be  to  write  not  only  clearly 
but  vividly,  for  the  story  of  action  must  depend  chiefly 
upon  vividness  for  its  verisimilitude.  The  simpler 
figures  will  be  profitable  to  employ,  provided  they  are 
not  too  good  and  do  not  call  attention  to  themselves 
rather  than  the  image  they  are  used  to  precipitate.  The 
writer's  general  endeavor  will  be  to  follow  stylistically 
the  rapid  movement  of  events.  A  reading  of  Dumas 
will  show  this  method  in  use. 

If  there  is  a  touch  of  fantasy  about  the  tale, 
greater  elaboration  in  sentence  structure  and  some 
freakishness  in  the  choice  of  words  will  be  permissible 


EXECUTIVE   TECHNIQUE   OF   NARRATION  93 

and  even  desirable,  for  true  verisimilitude  lies  in  the 
accordance  of  manner  and  matter.  The  story  with  a 
thread  of  unreality  in  its  essential  composition  will  not 
gain  in  power  by  matter  of  fact  telling ;  the  measure  of 
verisimilitude  which  it  can  attain  is  strictly  limited  by 
its  very  nature,  and  can  be  gained  to  the  full  only  by 
frankly  and  avowedly  making  it  what  it  is.*  An  in- 
stance is  afforded  by  Stevenson's  "New  Arabian 
Nights"  series  or  Hawthorne's  "Tanglewood  Tales." 

The  story  placing  emphasis  on  character,  or  the 
story  of  atmosphere,  unless  the  atmosphere  itself  be 
the  onrush  of  events,  will  normally  demand  more  leis- 
urely treatment  than  the  story  of  action.  The  move- 
ment of  the  story  will  be  slower,  and  the  style  will  be 
correspondingly  affected.  Dealing  with  motives  direct- 
ly will  force  the  writer  to  qualify  and  distinguish,  ad- 
ding to  length  of  sentences,  while  to  precipitate  an  at- 
mosphere in  words  is  a  matter  of  such  delicacy  that 
the  writer  will  be  forced  to  employ  every  resource  of 
language,  with  a  consequent  complication  in  structure. 
The  necessity  is  to  hold  the  tale  in  mind  before  writing 
until  its  totality  of  character  is  realized,  then  to 
strive  to  commit  no  gaucheries  in  execution.  The  right 
word  for  the  right  place  must  be  sought,  indefinite 
advice  which  will  prove  of  little  aid  in  writing  a  single 
story,  but  which  will  yield  ample  returns  if  followed 
through  careful  and  intelligent  writing  of  many  stories. 
In  dealing  with  this  matter  of  manner  or  style,  and  the 
necessity  that  it  be  in  keeping  with  the  particular  story 
in  hand,  it  is  impossible  to  give  examples  on  account  of 

*  The  writer  should  strive  to  realize  this  fact.  The  neces- 
sity is  not  to  make  the  reader  accept  a  story  as  literal  truth, 
but  to  make  him  accept  it  as  fictional  truth.  Many  of  Poe's 
stories  are  unbelievable,  but  their  power  is  felt  to  the  full 
though  they  are  not  believed.  In  other  words,  the  reader  will 
grant  the  author  his  premises. 


94  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

lack  of  space.  I  can  only  refer  the  reader  to  almost  any 
fiction  that  has  resisted  the  tooth  of  time.  To  leave 
prose  for  a  moment  and  turn  to  poetry,  a  reading  0: 
Milton's  "L' Allegro"  and  "II  Penseroso"  will  demon 
strate  the  possibility  and  display  the  result  of  adapt- 
ing the  manner  to  the  matter.  The  style  of  both  is  un- 
mistakably Milton's  alone,  marked  by  his  dignity  and 
elevation  of  tone,  yet  one  is  as  sweet  and  light  as  a 
summer  breeze,  the  other  as  grave  and  sombre  as  a 
minor  chord. 

A  reading  of  Jane  Austen  will  prove  profitable  in 
this  connection.  Her  books  are  all  of  a  piece  in  man- 
ner and  matter.  Perhaps  the  writer  who  must  please 
the  somewhat  hectic  modern  market  will  find  little 
profit  in  imitating  her  choice  of  jnatter,  but  the  skill 
with  which  she  weaves  her  pattern  will  be  instructive. 
Emily  Bronte's  "Wuthering  Heights"  perfectly  fits  the 
garment  to  the  body.  The  story  is  wild  and  its  style 
is*  wild.  George  Douglas's  "The  House  With  the  Green 
Shutters,"  a  more  recent  book  and  one  of  singular 
power,  is  well  done  in  this  respect.  It  is  essentially 
rugged  and  bitter,  and  the  author,  though  without  par- 
ticular distinction  of  individual  style,  strikes  no  note 
not  in  keeping  with  the  general  conception. 


CHAPTER  VII 
EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION 

Narration  Method — Story  of  the  Commonplace — Story  of  the 
Bizarre — Vividness — Suspense — Emphasis  and  Suppression 
— Matter  of  Weight — Expansion  and  Vividness — Primary 
and  Secondary  Events — Transition — General  Narration — 
Blending  of  Elements. 

The  writer  who  has  discovered  a  good  plot,  so  that 
his  interest  will  not  flag  in  writing,  and  who  has  fully 
developed  the  conception,  so  that  he  can  have  a  single 
eye  to  execution,  will  meet  few  obstacles  in  setting 
down  the  whole  story.  Difficulties  there  will  be  in 
plenty,  but  they  will  be  self-imposed.  That  is  to  say, 
it  will  be  very  easy  to  give  the  justly  elaborated  con- 
ception expression  approximately  adequate,  but  it  will 
be  very  hard  to  give  the  conception  verbally  faultless 
expression.  If  the  writer  strives  merely  to  tell  the 
story,  the  labor  of  writing  will  be  slight ;  if  he  strives  to 
write  with  artistry  and  power,  it  will  be  infinitely  great. 

This  book  is  on  the  technique  of  fiction  writing, 
not  on  the  technique  of  writing;  my  aim  is  to  dis- 
cuss only  the  matters  of  technique  peculiar  to  the  art 
of  fiction.  Thus,  in  this  chapter  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  state  that  the  important  event  should  be  emphasized, 
and  that  vividness  in  narration  is  a  means  to  that  end, 
but  how  to  narrate  vividly  is  a  question  of  rhetoric 
generally,  and  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  discuss  it.  More- 
over, it  is  emphatically  true  that  the  capacity  to  nar- 

95 


96_         THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

rate  vividly  cannot  be  attained  by  the  mere  study  of 
examples,  the  only  way  in  which  the  matter  can 
be  studied.  The  writer  can  only  strive  constantly 
in  his  work  to  write  with  definition  and  force.  It  is 
all  a  matter  of  practice,  whether  or  not  the  capacity 
must  be  inborn.  But  the  principle  of  fiction  technique, 
that  the  important  event  should  be  emphasized  in 
some  way,  whether  by  vividness  or  expansion,  is  sub- 
ject to  direct  statement  and  to  assimulation  from  the 
direct  statement.  Therefore  statement  of  the  principle 
is  all  that  a  work  on  fiction  technique  need  attempt.  The 
rest  lies  with  the  writer  himself.* 

The  first  chapter  on  the  executive  technique  of  nar- 
ration took  up  the  two  preliminary  problems  of  the 
mode  of  narration  and  of  manner  or  style ;  this  second 
chapter  has  to  do  with  certain  other  matters  that  must 
be  considered  in  writing  a  story,  viewed  as  a  chain 
of  events.  Character,  atmosphere,  and  dialogue  will 
receive  separate  treatment,  and  for  discussion  of  the 
strict  technique  of  expression  the  reader  is  referred  to 
works  on  rhetoric,  except  that  in  discussing  the  tech- 

*  In  connection  with  the  subject  of  vivid  narration  of  an 
important  event  I  might  illustrate  the  text  by  brief  quotation. 
Unlike  matters  of  construction,  matters  of  strict  execution  can 
be  shown  by  pungent  quotation.  The  question  is  not  whether 
it  is  possible,  but  whether  it  is  useful.  Take  this  sentence  from 
Stevenson's  "Kidnapped":  "His  sword  flashed  like  quicksilver 
into  the  huddle  of  his  fleeing  enemies."  It  is  perfectly  descrip- 
tive, alive  as  the  sword  was  alive  in  the  hand  of  Alan  Breck. 
But  no  one  by  reading  it  can  learn  to  write  like  it,  a  capacity 
to  be  gained  only  by  long  and  arduous  practice,  such  .as  Steven- 
son's. A  good  many  books  on  technique  have  more  quotation 
than  text,  and  while  free  quotation  lends  a  superficial  weight  to 
the  whole,  it  is  not  of  much  practical  use  to  one  seeking  to 
learn  how  to  write.  His  own  reading  will  offer  him  examples  in 
plenty,  and  the  most  or  even  the  only  useful  thing  a  work  on 
technique  can  do  for  him  is  to  state  the  principles  he  should 
try  to  follow  in  his  own  work. 


EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  97 

nique  of  description  in  the  next  chapter  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  touch  upon  nicety  of  expression. 

METHOD 

The  method  of  narration  is  necessarily  influenced 
somewhat  by  the  style  the  writer  of  a  story  strives 
first  to  find  and  then  to  maintain,  but  the  style  does  not 
entirely  determine  the  method,  or  the  method  the 
style.  The  matters  are  distinct,  though  mutually  in- 
fluential. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  lives,  or  at  least  two  kinds 
of  incidents,  the  humdrum  and  the  bizarre.  Likewise 
and  consequently  there  are  two  kinds  of  stories  to  be 
told,  the  humdrum  and  the  bizarre.  Each  may  be 
fashioned  into  something  worth  while.  Whether  the 
matter  of  a  story  is  worth  while  depends  on  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  phase  of  life  involved;  whether  the  story 
itself  is  worth  while  depends  on  its  plausibility  or  veri- 
similitude, which  depends  on  the  way  it  is  constructed 
and  told. 

The  humdrum  story,  that  deals  with  the  more  com- 
mon actualities  of  life,  the  little  details  that  are  signifi- 
cant only  in  combination  or  in  relation  to  certain  char- 
acters, can  be  told  as  simply  as  the  writer  desires.  He 
has  only  to  set  down  the  succession  of  details  that 
constitutes  the  story.  Each  new  incident  will  not  only 
advance  the  narrative  progress  of  the  story,  but  the 
commonplace  nature  of  each  incident  in  itself  will  tend 
to  give  the  fiction  its  necessary  plausibility.  Simply 
because  each  incident  is  common  and  of  universal 
occurrence  the  reader  will  accept  it  and  the  story 
compounded  of  such  elements.  Matter  of  fact  phras- 
ing, not  phrasing  too  "literary"  in  spots,  is  most  suit- 


98  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

able.*  Such  a  story  does  not  require  high  lights  of 
expression,  and  they  should  not  be  interpolated. 

The  story  dealing  with  the  strange  and  wonderful 
is  another  matter.  In  writing  it  the  author's  aim  is 
the  same  as  in  writing  the  commonplace  story,  to  give 
it  plausibility  and  verisimilitude,  but  the  task  is  in- 
finitely more  difficult.  Proper  construction  will  aid 
greatly,  and  in  execution  the  writer  has  two  resources. 

The  first  is  the  method  of  Defoe,  and  consists  in 
showing  the  reader  the  strange  course  of  events 
through  a  lattice  of  familiar  thoughts  and  things.  It  is 
an  attempt  to  give  the  essentially  bizarre  story  some- 
thing of  the  plausibility  and  power  of  the  story  of  the 
commonplace  by  interpolating  universally  familiar  mat- 
ters of  detail.  They  are  unnecessary  to  the  bare  story, 
but  they  are  useful  to  give  the  reader  a  thread  of 
connection  between  his  own  experience  and  the  strange 
fiction.  The  method  is  persuasive,  and  requires  a  high 
degree  of  craftsmanship  to  employ  well.  Familiar  and 
unfamiliar  must  be  woven  together  with  a  careful  and 
skilful  hand.  And  obviously  it  requires  space.  Ex- 
amples are  Defoe's  work — often  cited — such  as  "Rob- 
inson Crusoe"  or  "A  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,"  or 
Balzac's  "Peau  de  Chagrin." 

The  second  method  to  give  to  the  strange  and  won- 
derful verisimilitude  and  plausibility  is  not  persuasive, 
but  consists  in  writing  with  such  vividness,  definition, 
and  force  that  the  verbal  picture  will  be  accepted  with- 
out question  as  visual  evidence.  Seeing  is  believing. 
In  fact,  the  more  strange  or  wild  any  cKain  of  events, 

*  I  once  read  a  story  in  manuscript  wherein  a  character 
related  a  commonplace  tale  of  woe  to  another,  with  the  result 
that  the  other's  eyes  "glistened  with  hot  tears."  Not  only  has 
the  expression  been  worked  to  death,  so  that  it  has  no  primary 
freshness  for  a  reader,  but  it  is  too  artificial  and  strained  for  a 
story  of  the  commonplace. 


EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  99 

the  deeper  their  impression  on  a  reader,  provided  al- 
ways that  he  be  made  to  see  them.  Obviously,  to  the 
use  of  this  method  the  highest  powers  are  necessary, 
the  power  to  select  the  salient  and  distinctive  points 
of  the  thing  to  be  drawn,  excising  all  superfluous  mat- 
ters, the  power  to  choose  the  exact  and  vivid  word,  and, 
finally,  the  power — more,  seemingly,  than  that  of  mere 
word-selection — to  precipitate  reality  in  words,  one 
sometimes  manifested  by  works  the  diction  of  which  is 
not  particularly  dynamic.  It  is  the  method  of  Steven- 
son and  Kipling,  among  others,  and  to  the  author  who 
can  employ  it  no  degree  of  novelty  in  the  physical  con- 
ditions of  a  story  is  a  deterrent.  He  can  show  the  thing 
like  a  painting  or  a  stage  scene,  and  his  reader  runs 
breathlessly  with  him,  caught  up  in  the  race  of  events. 
The  method  demands  the  highest  imaginative  powers 
in  the  author,  that  he  may  actually  see  the  matter 
he  is  depicting,  in  detail  and  in  the  mass,  and  the  high- 
est executive  powers,  that  he  may  fix  its  living  image 
with  his  pen. 

This  method  to  present  the  bizarre  event  with 
all  the  color  and  body  of  reality — of  course  it  may  be 
employed  in  depicting  the  commonplace  as  well,  though 
expression  of  the  commonplace  should  not  be  too 
heightened — is  the  method  of  the  severe  literary  artist, 
because  it  is  compatible  with  the  most  perfect  unity 
and  the  greatest  brevity.  To  arouse  emotion  in  a 
reader  the  writer  must  have  something  more  than  mere 
color  in  his  work,  but  to  make  a  reader  see  anything 
it  is  only  necessary  always  to  search  for  the  right 
word,  which  is  the  word  both  exact  and  dynamic. 
Yet  if  this  is  the  sole  condition,  it  is  a  doubly  hard  one. 
The  perfectly  exact  word  is  so  elusive,  and,  when  dis- 
covered, it  is  so  often  lacking  in  the  requisite  force. 
Exactness  is  not  enough;  the  needful  word  is  the  one 
that  not  only  will  fit  the  author's  vision,  but  give  it  life ; 


100  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

and  it  is  here  that  figurative  language  finds  its  office. 
"I  saw  a  fleet,"  is  exact.  "I  saw  a  hundred  sail,"  is 
equally  exact,  and  much  more  vivid. 

Vivid,  direct  writing,  which  does  not  depend  on 
connection  with  his  own  experience  to  hold  the  reader, 
is  the  most  practicable  narrative  method  for  use  in 
the  short  story  or  novel  of  incident,  that  is,  in  the 
typical  fiction,  where  interest  centers  in  the  course 
of  events.  In  other  words,  it  is  the  typical  narrative 
method ;  the  method  of  coaxing  the  reader  into  believ- 
ing the  strange  by  showing  it  in  juxtaposition  with  the 
familiar  is  a  variation  from  type.  Narration  consists 
in  stating  what  happened.  If  what  happened  was  com- 
monplace, the  reader  need  only  be  told  it;  if  what 
happened  was  strange,  the  reader  must  be  coaxed  or 
forced  to  believe  it,  and  the  writer  must  either  coax 
him  or  narrate  with  such  vividness  and  power  that  the 
word  will  have  the  body  and  reality  of  the  fact. 

SUSPENSE 

The  term  suspense  is  often  misused  to  characterize 
a  quality  of  narration  supposed  to  result  from  the  em- 
ployment of  some  technical  device.  What  is  meant, 
of  course,  is  that  a  good  story,  involving  real  people, 
justly  related,  will  hold  its  reader's  interest  until  the 
denouement  is  reached.  Suspense  means  continued 
interest,  and  can  result  only  from  sound  conception, 
careful  elaboration,  and  adequate  narration  of  a  story. 
The  reader  who  is  shown  real  people  in  an  interesting 
situation  will  be  in  a  state  of  suspense  through  his 
curiosity  and  desire  to  learn  what  happened  next. 
There  is  no  technical  device  to  create  suspense,  for  sus- 
pense can  result  only  from  the  worth  of  the  whole  story. 
I  mention  the  matter  thus  briefly  on  account  of  the  mis- 
use of  the  term.  If  there  is  any  technique  to  create 


EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  101 

suspense,  it  is  the  technique  to  order  a  story's  events 
in  a  climactic  ascension,  and  is  not  an  executive  device. 

EMPHASIS  AND  SUPPRESSION 

A  story  is  made  up  of  a  succession  of  happenings, 
some  of  major  and  many  of  minor  importance,  and  in 
telling  it  the  writer  must  emphasize  the  most  import- 
ant events  to  impress  their  significance  upon  a  reader. 
It  will  not  do  to  relate  the  whole,  indiscriminately,  with 
as  much  vividness  as  the  writer  can  command,  for  the 
fictional  value  of  the  whole  necessarily  resides  in  the 
relation  between  its  chief  events,  and  that  relation  can 
be  made  apparent  only  by  showing  them  in  high  relief. 
The  most  important  events  of  a  story  must  be  em- 
phasized ;  events  of  some  but  not  of  controlling  import- 
ance must  not  be  stressed  too  much;  and  the  very 
trivial  events,  which  are  usually  matter  of  transition, 
necessary  only  to  the  mechanical  progress  of  the  story, 
should  be  suppressed  by  narrating  without  detail  and 
in  general  terms. 

Fundamentally,  emphasis  and  suppression  are 
matters  of  weight,  while  proportion  is  a  matter  of 
space.  There  is  a  real  relation  between  preserving  pro- 
portion and  laying  emphasis,  but  it  is  accidental. 
When  an  important  event  is  somewhat  complicated,  as  a 
love  scene,  proportion  requires  that  it  be  narrated  in 
detail,  for  it  would  take  some  time  to  happen  in  reality ; 
and  due  emphasis  will  be  secured  by  detailed  narration. 
But  when  an  important  event  is  inherently  simple  in 
character  and  brief  in  the  time  it  would  take  to  happen, 
proportion  requires  that  it  be  given  not  too  much  space, 
while  emphasis  requires  that  it  be  stressed.  To  stress 
such  an  event,  the  writer's  sole  recourse  is  vividness  in 
narration.  The  physical  details  are  few,  but  they  must 
be  made  strikingly  impressive.  Where  an  event  is  es- 


102  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

sentially  complicated,  a  knot  of  many  details, 
emphasis  may  be  laid  by  detailed  narration,  by 
expansion,  and  proportion  will  not  be  violated.  In  the 
case  of  the  important  but  inherently  simple  event  there 
are  no  great  number  of  details  to  be  marshalled  on  the 
page,  and  the  writer  can  only  strive  to  invest  his  few 
words  with  power. 

The  writer  should  consider  the  matter  of  propor- 
tion in  alloting  the  space  of  a  story  before  writing,  as 
has  been  stated.  In  writing,  the  mere  fact  that  he 
follows  events  in  detail  with  his  pen  will  lead  him  to 
emphasize  by  expansion,  where  the  subject  matter 
naturally  calls  for  that  mode  of  securing  emphasis. 
Where  expansion  is  impossible  on  account  of  the  ab- 
sence of  details  to  be  narrated,  the  writer's  realization 
of  the  importance  of  the  event  will  lead  him  to  cast 
about  for  the  vivid  word.  That  is  to  say,  in  dealing 
with  the  important  events  of  a  story  the  way  to  write 
is  to  visualize  the  procession  of  happenings  and  to  fol- 
low them  with  the  pen  in  detail,  seeking  the  vivid  and 
emphatic  word  where  the  event  is  vivid  and  emphatic. 
When  the  event  is  a  bundle  of  many  details,  setting 
them  down  will  emphasize  the  episode  by  expansion; 
and  where  the  event  is  simple,  and  a  mere  detail  in 
itself,  as  a  blow,  vividness  in  narration  will  counterfeit 
the  force  of  the  episode 

Normally,  the  succession  of  chief  events  will  take 
up  the  greater  part  of  the  space  available  for  a  story, 
and,  if  the  work  of  construction  has  been  done  properly 
before  writing,  the  writer  will  have  his  attention  free 
to  visualize  each  successive  happening  and  to  picture 
it.  The  difficulty  will  be  to  express  perfectly.  The 
process  is  natural.  It  cannot  be  too  strongly  in- 
sisted that  the  way  to  write  the  strict  story  part  of  a 
story  is  to  strive  to  see  the  thing  in  imagination  and 
to  get  it  on  paper  with  the  breath  of  life  in  it.  By 


EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  103 

following  his  vision  with  his  pen  the  writer  will  take 
care  of  the  matters  of  proportion  and  emphasis  without 
detached  calculation  looking  to  that  end. 

But  that  is  not  quite  true  in  narrating  secondary 
events  and  writing  general  matter  of  transition,  the 
part  of  a  story  that  gives  the  main  events  a  natural  se- 
quence and  proper  spacing,  or  that  develops  character. 
The  main  events  exist  only  for  the  story ;  they  are  the 
story.  The  secondary  events  and  matter  of  transition 
exist  largely  for  the  sake  of  the  reader.  Such  events 
prepare  the  characters,  for  instance,  that  the  main 
situations  may  have  true  and  full  dramatic  value  to 
the  reader,  while  the  general  matter  of  transition 
serves  to  give  the  main  events  spacing  and  the  story 
plausibility.  And  in  narrating  secondary  events,  and 
writing  matter  of  transition,  the  writer  cannot  have  an 
eye  solely  to  imagining  the  procession  of  little  happen- 
ings and  to  reproducing  them  in  detail.  If  he  wrote  so 
they  would  bulk  as  large  as  the  main  events,  and  the 
short  story  would  fill  a  novel  and  the  novel  an  encyclo- 
paedia. Instead,  the  writer  must  realize  the  reasons  that 
led  him  to  choose  or  devise  each  secondary  event  while 
constructing  the  story,  and  must  narrate  each  minor 
event  so  that  it  will  just  perform  its  designed  function 
and  no  more.  The  major  events  of  a  story  are  prim- 
arily significant,  and  it  is  sufficient  to  narrate  them  so 
as  to  counterfeit  them  as  they  would  be  in  reality.  The 
minor  events  of  a  story  are  not  significant  in  them- 
selves, but  only  in  relation  to  something  else,  and  in 
narrating  them  the  writer  should  develop  only  their 
significant  phases.  They  must  be  given  reality  and 
verisimilitude,  but  their  aspects  and  implications  un- 
important to  the  story  should  not  be  detailed  and 
thereby  stressed.  All  aspects  of  the  main  events  are 
to  be  detailed  simply  because  all  aspects  of  the  main 
events  are  important  to  the  story.  They  are  the  story. 


104  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

The  discussion  is  somewhat  abstract  and  involved, 
but  necessarily  so.  The  technique  will  be  easier  to 
practice  than  it  sounds,  much  easier,  for  instance,  than 
to  narrate  the  simple  but  important  event  with  due 
emphasis  through  vividness.  That  necessity  is  su- 
premely easy  to  state  or  realize,  but  supremely  hard  to 
meet  in  writing  a  story.  The  technique  of  handling 
secondary  events  and  matter  of  transition  is  hard  to 
state  abstractly  and  to  grasp  from  mere  discussion, 
but  when  it  is  grasped  it  is  comparatively  easy  to  apply 
in  writing,  for  it  calls  for  no  executive  power,  merely 
the  negative  power  to  leave  out  the  insignificant. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  process  of  narrating  the 
minor  events  of  a  story  is  not  natural,  but  highly  arti- 
ficial. The  process  of  narrating  the  main  events  is 
natural;  it  consists  merely  in  imagining  and  reproduc- 
ing them  with  as  much  body  and  color  as  possible. 
Where  undivided  attention  to  phrasing  is  most  essen- 
tial, the  writer  can  give  it;  where  it  is  least  essential, 
in  setting  out  a  minor  event,  the  writer  must  give  much 
attention  to  what  aspects  of  the  episode  he  should 
emphasize.  He  cannot  reproduce  it  in  full  detail 
simply  for  what  it  is  in  itself.  Just  narration  of  second- 
ary episodes  and  transitional  passages  is  a  matter  of 
calculation;  just  narration  of  the  more  important 
events  of  a  story  is  a  matter  of  warm  creation  and 
verbal  power. 

TRANSITION 

In  a  sense,  all  events  of  a  story  may  be  said  to  have 
a  primary  value,  for  an  event  is  at  least  a  happening 
and  has  some  interest  for  a  reader.  But  the  people  of 
a  story  must  be  carried  on  from  event  to  event,  major 
or  minor,  and  the  story  with  them.  The  necessity 
causes  the  insertion  of  transitional  matter  in  any  story 
that  has  more  than  a  single  episode. 


EXECUTIVE  TECHNIQUE  OF  NARRATION  105 

Transitional  matter  has  no  capacity  to  evoke 
interest  in  itself,  unless  it  be  so  detailed  as  to  form  a 
succession  of  petty  happenings,  in  which  case  it  ceases 
to  be  strictly  transitional.  Therefore  it  should  be  got- 
ten over  with  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  writer  should 
narrate  in  general  terms,  as  has  been  stated  in  discus- 
sing proportion,  the  only  end  being  to  forward  the 
mechanical  progress  of  the  story.  No  emphasis  need 
be  laid  on  such  matter.  A  frequent  fault  in  beginning 
writers  is  lack  of  capacity  to  pass  from  one  event 
to  another  smoothly  and  swiftly.  Many  seem 
unable  to  step  from  detailed  to  general  narration  where 
the  story  demands  it,  and  as  a  result  their  stories  lose 
interest.  The  details  of  important  events  are  the 
breath  of  life  to  a  story,  but  details  without  fictional 
purpose  only  clog  the  action  and  discourage  the  reader's 
interest.  Matter  of  transition  should  be  handled  as 
swiftly  as  can  be  done  without  rendering  the  whole 
story  jerky  and  unbalanced.  It  may  be  noted  that 
transitional  matter  on  the  lips  of  a  narrating  charac- 
ter can  be  given  piquancy  and  made  interesting  in 
itself,  like  introductory  matter. 

Often  transitional  matter  may  be  entirely  omitted. 
Thus  Maupassant,  in  "The  Necklace,"  does  not  attempt 
to  make  the  story  an  unbroken  chronological  progres- 
sion. The  nature  of  each  particular  story  determines 
its  content,  of  course,  and  where  matter  of  transition 
is  necessary  or  desirable  the  writer  should  realize  its 
nature  and  handle  it  accordingly. 

BLENDING  OF  ELEMENTS 

Each  story  has  two  primary  fictional  elements,  the 
people  and  the  events,  but  it  has  three  mechanical  ele- 
ments, the  action,  the  speech  of  the  characters,  and  the 
matter  descriptive  of  persons  or  places.  And  while 


106  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

each  tale  is  unique,  and  any  one  of  these  mechanical 
elements  may  largely  preponderate  over  the  others, 
nevertheless  the  normal  fiction  will  devote  a  substantial 
amount  of  space  to  each.  If  the  story  permits — a 
proviso  implied  in  discussing  any  matter  of  technique- 
it  will  be  well  for  the  writer  to  strive  to  distribute  and 
intermingle  its  action,  dialogue,  and  descriptive  matter 
in  a  texture  pleasing  because  varied.  The  whole  should 
not  be  built  of  unwieldy  chunks  of  description,  speech, 
and  action  succeeding  one  another  with  monotonous 
regularity,  but  descriptive  touches  should  be  inter- 
mingled with  the  dialogue,  and  narrative  matter 
with  word-painting  and  the  speech  of  characters. 
Obviously  this  is  no  absolute  rule,  and  is  perhaps 
not  ever  a  matter  of  strict  art,  but  it  is  true 
that  a  reader  quickly  wearies  of  much  of  the  same 
thing,  and  a  story  is  for  its  reader.  Moreover,  a 
story  as  a  whole  will  gain  in  verisimilitude  by  judicious 
distribution  of  its  mechanical  elements.  The  matter  is 
merely  another  phase  of  the  necessity  to  give  a 
fiction  the  seeming  of  life,  and  should  not  be  neglected, 
the  more  so  because  it  is  easy  and  a  mechanical  matter. 
The  beginner  can  afford  to  neglect  no  chance  for 
success. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
DESCRIPTION 

Interest — Secondary  Function  of  Description — Distribution — 
Story  of  Atmosphere — Effectiveness  of  Distributed  Descrip- 
tion— Description  of  Persons — Example — Analysis — Accu- 
racy— Mechanical  Limitations  of  Story — Use  of  All  Senses 
—Description  of  Setting — Two  Objects — To  Clarify  Course 
of  Events — To  Create  Illusion  of  Reality — Use  of  All  Senses 
Order  of  Details — Contrast. 

All  writing  is  descriptive,  in  a  sense;  narration, 
for  instance,  is  simply  the  picturing  of  shifting  physi- 
cal conditions  in  a  state  of  fluxation.  But  description 
is  usually  taken  to  mean  the  picturing  of  physical  con- 
ditions more  or  less  static.  The  term  is  used  so  here, 
for  the  technique  of  describing  persons,  scenes,  and 
objects  generally  requires  treatment  separate  from  the 
description  or  narration  of  bare  events.  In  describing 
a  happening  of  his  story,  and  in  describing  one  ot 
the  characters,  the  writer's  general  object  is  the 
same,  to  show  the  person  or  event  with  the  vivacity 
of  life,  but  the  conditions  to  which  the  writer  is 
subject  are  somewhat  different  in  each  case.  To 
mention  but  one  difference,  normally  much  more 
space  is  available  for  pure  narration  than  for  pure 
description.  The  events  of  a  story  are  the  story;  its 
people  and  its  setting  are  drawn  only  to  give  the  fiction 
the  highest  attainable  degree  of  verisimilitude.  And, 
since  the  space  available  for  description  in  the  normal 

107 


108  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

story  is  somewhat  limited,  the  writer  is  under  strin- 
gent necessity  to  make  each  word  tell.  In  narrating  an 
event,  the  matter  has  an  interest  of  its  own  for  a 
reader  apart  from  the  manner  of  telling,  but  in  describ- 
ing a  person,  scene,  or  object,  the  word  is  all  in  all. 
If  the  picture  is  not  effective,  nothing  is  achieved. 

In  coming  to  the  writing  of  a  descriptive  passage, 
the  writer  should  realize  its  secondary  function  in  the 
story.  Except  in  the  case  of  the  story  of  atmosphere, 
and  perhaps  of  the  story  of  character,  a  reader's  inter- 
est will  focus  in  the  progression  of  happenings  as  such, 
and  the  sole  object  of  strictly  descriptive  matter  is  to 
give  maximum  concreteness  to  the  events  by  depicting 
their  setting  and  individualizing  the  persons  concerned. 
What  happens  is  the  first  consideration,  not  where  it 
happens  nor  whom  it  affects.  Most  stories  might  be 
told  without  a  single  word  of  strict  description,  and  no 
such  word  should  be  given  place  in  any  story  unless  it 
will  forward  the  fiction  to  a  higher  degree  of  veri- 
similitude. 

It  follows  that  descriptive  matter  should  not  be 
written  pages  at  a  time.  Its  function  is  to  lend  body 
and  color  to  the  whole  course  of  events,  therefore 
descriptive  touches  should  be  inserted  throughout  the 
whole  course  of  a  story.  To  give  an  itemized  descrip- 
tion of  a  character  at  the  start,  or  to  picture  the  whole 
countryside  through  which  the  story  is  to  move,  is  a 
poor,  because  ineffective,  way  to  write.  Not  only  will 
the  reader  be  repelled  by  great  spaces  of  description, 
but  he  will  forget  the  attempted  picture  with  speed. 
The  thing  to  do  is  to  insert  a  vivid  word  here  and  there 
where  it  will  do  the  most  good  as  the  story  progresses. 
Description  is  for  the  story,  not  to  give  the  writer  a 
chance  to  heap  words. 

Numerous  successful  authors  have  indulged  in 
lengthy  descriptions,  but  the  worth  of  their  books  does 


DESCRIPTION  109 

not  result  from  the  indulgence.  Hugo's  description  of 
mediaeval  Paris  in  "Notre  Dame"  is  an  example  so 
extreme  as  almost  not  to  be  in  point,  but  most  of  the 
elder  generation  of  writers  hampered  the  march  of 
their  stories  by  describing  at  inordinate  length.  No 
matter  what  the  eminence  of  those  who  have  written 
so,  it  is  a  technical  fault,  for  it  tends  to  render  the 
story  stiff  and  mechanical  and  unnatural.  Lengthy 
description  is  not  only  inimical  to  a  reader's  interest ;  it 
is  perfectly  useless  in  a  fictional  sense.  The  sole  func- 
tion of  description  is  to  give  body  and  reality  to  the 
story,  and  that  function  cannot  be  performed  unless  the 
descriptive  quality  runs  through  the  whole,  and  the 
descriptive  matter  is  not  gathered  into  stagnant  pools 
of  words. 

Much  of  the  effect  of  the  story  of  atmosphere  may 
depend  upon  its  descriptive  matter,  which  may  con- 
stitute a  great  part  of  the  whole  text.  The  fact  does 
not  invalidate  the  general  proposition.  In  discussing 
the  various  aspects  of  technique,  such  as  this  matter 
of  description,  the  initial  assumption  is  that  only  the 
technique  of  the  normal  story  will  be  stated.  The  nor- 
mal story  is  the  story  of  complication  of  incident,  where 
interest  centers  in  the  course  of  events  rather  than  in 
the  people  or  the  setting.  Variants  from  it,  the  story 
emphasizing  character  and  the  story  stressing  atmos- 
phere, by  their  very  difference  call  for  a  different 
handling  of  elements. 

Aside  from  the  fact  that  a  single  lengthy  descrip- 
tion of  a  person  usually  will  have  less  effect  on  a  reader 
than  the  same  amount  of  descriptive  matter  deftly 
interpolated  throughout  the  whole  story,  or  the  fact 
that  recurrent  descriptive  touches  as  to  setting  will 
do  more  to  give  body  to  the  fiction  than  a  single 
lengthy  description,  the  writer  should  consider  the 
mere  rhetorical  difficulty  of  descriptive  writing.  He 


110  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

must  stand  or  fall  by  the  picture  he  creates.  In  narrat- 
ing, he  has  another  resource  than  perfection  in  expres- 
sion, for  the  bare  event,  apart  from  the  way  it  is  told, 
will  interest  a  reader.  But  a  picture  will  not  interest 
unless  it  is  a  picture.  Rhetorical  skill  is  the  sole  deter- 
minant between  absolute  success  and  flat  failure  in 
describing.  And  it  is  hard  enough  to  find  one  or  two 
telling  descriptive  phrases  without  contracting  with 
the  reader  to  supply  several  pages  of  them.  Not  only 
is  a  long  descriptive  passage  of  questionable  value  in 
the  normal  story,  even  when  well  done,  but  very  few 
can  write  a  long  descriptive  passage  well.  The  matter 
of  emphasis  here  comes  up  again  for  consideration. 
Vividness  is  not  absolute,  but  relative.  One  vivid 
phrase  will  seem  vivid  to  a  reader,  but  fifty  or  a  hun- 
dred together  will  not.  The  reader  will  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  higher  level  of  expression,  and  the  whole 
will  fail  of  its  object. 

In  the  course  of  a  story  the  writer  will  have  occa- 
sion to  describe  persons  and — roughly — things.  De- 
scriptive writing  is  descriptive  writing,  but  the  matters 
for  consideration  in  describing  a  man  or  woman  and  a 
countryside  are  somewhat  different,  and  will  be  taken 
up  separately. 

DESCRIPTION  OF  PERSONS 

As  I  have  stated  in  another  place,  the  writer  can- 
not gain  much  in  capacity  to  express  through  the 
objective  study  of  examples.  He  can  only  practice  the 
art,  seriously  and  intelligently.  But  Stevenson's  brief 
story  of  an  episode  in  the  life  of  Master  Francois  Villon 
of  Paris,  poet,  master  of  arts,  and  house-breaker,  "A 
Lodging  for  the  Night,"  so  perfectly  describes  the  per- 
sons involved  that  it  calls  for  quotation.  The  object 
is  not  to  display  perfect  use  of  epithet,  rather  to 


DESCRIPTION  111 

demonstrate  the  entire  adequacy  of  brief  and  pungent 
description.  Villon,  after  a  short  introduction,  is  dis- 
covered in  a  small  house  with  "some  of  the  thievish 
crew  with  whom  he  consorted." 

"A  great  pile  of  living  embers  diffused  a  strong 
and  ruddy  glow  from  the  arched  chimney.  Before  this 
straddled  Dom  Nicholas,  the  Picardy  monk,  with  his 
skirts  tucked  up  and  his  fat  legs  bared  to  the  comfort- 
able warmth.  His  dilated  shadow  cut  the  room  in  half ; 
and  the  firelight  only  escaped  on  either  side  of  his 
broad  person,  and  in  a  little  pool  between  his  outspread 
feet.  His  face  had  the  beery,  bruised  appearance  of 
the  continual  drinker's ;  it  was  covered  with  a  network 
of  congested  veins,  purple  in  ordinary  circumstances, 
but  now  pale  violet,  for  even  with  his  back  to  the  fire 
the  cold  pinched  him  on  the  other  side.  His  cowl  had 
half  fallen  back,  and  made  a  strange  excresence  on 
either  side  of  his  bull  neck.  So  he  straddled,  grum- 
bling, and  cut  the  room  in  half  with  the  shadow  of  his 
portly  frame. 

"On  the  right,  Villon  and  Guy  Tabary  were  hud- 
dled together  over  a  scrap  of  parchment ;  Villon  making 
a  ballade  which  he  was  to  call  the  'Ballade  of  Roast 
Fish/  and  Tabary  spluttering  admiration  at  his 
shoulder.  The  poet  was  a  rag  of  a  man,  dark,  little,  and 
lean,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  thin  black  locks.  He  car- 
ried his  four-and-twenty  years  with  feverish  animation. 
Greed  had  made  folds  about  his  eyes,  evil  smiles  had 
puckered  his  mouth.  The  wolf  and  pig  struggled  to- 
gether in  his  face.  It  was  an  eloquent,  sharp,  ugly, 
earthly  countenance.  His  hands  were  small  and  pre- 
hensile, with  fingers  knotted  like  a  cord ;  and  they  were 
continually  flickering  in  front  of  him  in  violent  and 
excessive  pantomime.  As  for  Tabary,  a  broad,  com- 
placent, admiring  imbecility  breathed  from  his  squash 
nose  and  slobbering  lips;  he  had  become  a  thief,  just 


112  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

as  he  might  have  become  the  most  decent  of  burgesses, 
by  the  imperious  chance  that  rules  the  lives  of  human 
geese  and  human  donkeys. 

"At  the  monk's  other  hand,  Montigny  and  Thevenin 
Pensete  played  a  game  of  chance.  About  the  first  there 
clung  some  flavor  of  good  birth  and  training,  as  about  a 
fallen  angel ;  something  long,  lithe,  and  courtly  in  the 
person;  something  aquiline  and  darkling  in  the  face. 
Thevenin,  poor  soul,  was  in  great  feather;  he  had  done 
a  good  stroke  of  knavery  that  afternoon  in  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Jacques,  and  all  night  he  had  been  gaining 
from  Montigny.  A  flat  smile  illuminated  his  face;  his 
bald  head  shone  rosily  in  a  garland  of  red  curls;  his 
little  protuberant  stomach  shook  with  silent  chuck- 
lings  as  he  swept  in  his  gains." 

The  first  thing  to  note  about  this  fine  descriptive 
fragment  is  that  the  persons  are  definitely  placed  in  the 
room.  The  monk  before  the  fire  is  the  focal  point; 
the  others  are  placed  in  groups  on  his  right  and  left 
hand.  Two  objects  are  achieved  thereby;  not  only 
does  the  picture  gain  in  definition,  but  it  is  given  a 
closer  relation  to  the  story,  which  is  partly  concerned 
with  what  happens  in  the  room.  In  other  words, 
Stevenson  describes  his  characters  in  relation  to  the 
story,  and  does  not  merely  describe  each  one  as  he  has 
occasion  to  name  him,  in  isolation,  and  merely  to  give 
a  reader  a  photograph  with  the  name.  Each  is  de- 
scribed in  relation  to  the  story  and  as  he  comes  up  in  it. 

The  second  thing  to  note  is  the  extreme  brevity 
and  yet  the  complete  adequacy  of  the  description  of 
each  person.  There  is  no  itemizing  of  physical  details  ; 
Stevenson  has  visualized  not  so  much  each  man  as  the 
most  striking  characteristic  of  each  man,  and  has  used 
all  resources  of  language  to  precipitate  that  character- 
istic in  words.  The  result  is  impressive.  A  reader 
gains  a  clear  and  definite  impression  of  the  individual 


DESCRIPTION  113 

personality  of  each  character,  his  spiritual  nature  as 
well  as  his  physical  aspect.  The  definition  of  the  im- 
pression in  each  case  results  from  the  author's  having 
described  nothing  possessed  by  any  two  in  common. 
He  has  shown  the  unique  quality  of  each  person,  which 
is  all  that  is  necessary. 

This  point  of  the  technique  of  describing  persons 
is  nine-tenths  of  the  whole  technique.  The  fiction 
writer's  proper  aim  is  not  so  much  to  build  up  a  physi- 
cal picture  of  a  character  by  itemizing  the  details  of 
hair,  complexion,  stature,  and  so  forth,  as  it  is  to  re- 
produce the  person's  unique  quality  as  an  individual 
human  being.  Whether  the  character  is  an  individual 
depends  on  the  writer's  creative  genius,  but  whether 
he  seems  individual  depends  on  his  actions  and  the  way 
he  is  described.  Stevenson  states  Villon's  salient  physi- 
cal characteristics,  then  remarks  that  the  wolf  and  pig 
struggled  together  in  his  face,  and  a  reader  has  the 
man,  soul  and  body.  The  same  method,  though  with 
less  emphasis,  is  employed  in  picturing  the  others  of 
the  group. 

A  fundamental  philosophical  truth  is  that  all 
knowledge  is  relative;  we  know  things  only  in  com- 
parison with  things  previously  encountered  and  classi- 
fied. It  follows  that  the  difference  between  objects  or 
persons  is  the  ultimate  factor  that  determines  the 
character  of  each.  The  single  unique  quality  of  any 
character  in  a  story  is  what  the  author  must  bring  out 
in  describing  him  if  he  is  to  have  on  paper  the  vivacity 
and  distinction  of  the  author's  mental  conception.  In 
real  life  a  reader  meets  many  men  and  women ;  he  does 
not  take  trouble  to  phrase  the  individual  peculiarity  of 
each,  but  he  is  acutely  conscious  of  it.  Each  acquaint- 
ance stands  for  something  unique  and  distinctive  in  Kis 
eyes,  though  he  does  not  and  perhaps  could  not  state 
the  essential  difference  from  all  others.  And,  in 
8 


114  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

describing  a  person  in  his  story,  the  writer  must  state 
that  person's  essential  difference  from  all  others,  if  the 
person  is  to  have  the  reality  of  life  for  a  reader,  for  the 
reader's  only  contact  with  the  person  is  through  the 
writer's  words.  In  life,  a  reader  will  eliminate  uncon- 
sciously from  his  mental  representation  of  an  ac- 
quaintance all  qualities  which  the  latter  has  in  common 
with  others,  but  verbal  representation  of  a  human  being 
is  shadowy  enough  at  best,  and  in  a  story  the  writer 
himself  must  eliminate  his  characters'  undistinctive 
qualities  for  the  reader,  or  the  persons  will  lack  defini- 
tion and  concreteness. 

The  third  thing  to  note  about  this  example  of  the 
description  of  persons  is  a  matter  which  it  really  does 
not  illustrate,  because  it  is  perfect.  My  statement  is 
at  once  obscure  and  paradoxical,  but  what  is  meant  is 
that  in  describing  a  person  it  is  possible  to  give  so 
sharp  a  verbal  etching  that  the  reader  will  believe  from 
the  word  itself.  It  is  the  descriptive  aspect  of  narrat- 
ing with  such  vividness  that  the  word  will  be  accepted 
as  visual  evidence.  As  it  happens,  in  describing  Villon 
and  his  fellows,  Stevenson  has  found  a  combination 
of  words  which  not  only  constitutes  a  vivid  picture  but 
is  one  that  a  reader  may  realize  in  imagination  without 
loss  of  definition.  Yet  take  such  a  touch  as  Balzac's 
in  stating  that  a  character  had  a  face  like  a  glass  of 
dirty  water.  It  is  extremely  vivid,  but  its  vividness  is 
somewhat  superficial,  that  is,  if  a  reader  dwells  on  it, 
and  tries  to  realize  the  image  in  thought,  it  will  lose 
much  of  its  definition.  I  have  first-hand  knowledge  of 
the  effect  on  only  one  reader,  of  course,  myself,  but 
others  have  confessed  when  questioned  the  same  in- 
ability to  realize  this  particular  figure  without  loss  of 
definition.  The  important  point  for  the  writer  of  fic- 
tion is  that  a  reader  will  not  pause  to  scrutinize  too 
closely  an  image  verbally  definite  and  striking;  such  a 


DESCRIPTION  115 

descriptive  touch  as  to  a  minor  character  will  perform 
its  office  of  giving  the  person  vivacity  and  reality  bet- 
ter than  a  more  accurate  but  less  heightened  itemiza- 
tion  of  details.  In  a  sense,  Stevenson's  passage  is  an 
example  of  this  matter.  It  happens  that  his  descrip- 
tion can  be  realized  without  loss  of  definition.  That 
is  why  it  is  perfect.  But  the  same  method  may  be  em- 
ployed less  justly  and  yet  have  more  effect  than  any 
mere  itemization  of  physical  details. 

In  picturing  his  chief  characters  the  writer  should 
not  rely  solely  upon  mere  verbal  sharpness.  If  the 
story  is  worth  while  they  will  have  saliences  that 
should  be  stated  as  well  as  exemplified  in  action.  But 
the  minor  characters  are  shadowy  enough  at  best,  and 
any  verbal  definition  that  can  be  given  them  will  lend 
concreteness  to  the  story.  If  an  image  is  not  only 
striking,  but  also  subject  to  realization  without  loss, 
so  much  the  better.  If  an  image  is  verbally  happy,  but 
not  intrinsically  perfect,  it  may  be  better  to  employ 
it  than  to  write  with  just  accuracy,  but  flatly.  I  believe 
that  accuracy  should  be  sacrificed  to  verbal  felicity  in 
no  other  place  than  in  describing  a  minor  character. 
It  is  an  aspect  of  the  general  fictional  necessity  that 
mere  literalness  be  sacrificed  to  verisimilitude,  and,  in 
describing  a  minor  character,  verisimilitude  requires 
that  a  reader  be  faced  by  what  will  seem  to  him  to  be 
a  definite  person  rather  than  some  particular  definite 
person.  Strictly  speaking,  a  minor  character  need  not 
be  individualized,  but  he  must  be  drawn  with  the  near- 
est possible  approach  to  the  sharp  outlines  of  life.  A 
major  character  must  be  drawn  definite  and  unique; 
a  minor  character  need  only  be  drawn  definite,  though 
the  more  individual  he  is  made  the  better.  It  follows 
that  any  sharp  verbal  image  applied  to  a  minor  charac- 
ter will  help  the  story,  though  it  is  within  limits 
meretricious. 


116  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

The  three  matters  here  discussed  are  the  main 
considerations  to  be  held  in  mind  in  describing  the  per- 
sons of  a  story.  They  should  be  described  in  relation 
to  the  story,  as  they  are  placed  by  their  actions  in  the 
physical  setting.  In  describing  the  chief  characters, 
the  persons  whose  personalities  have  significant  rela- 
tion to  the  course  of  events,  the  writer  should  endeavor 
to  bring  out  with  maximum  definition  and  vividness 
the  single  unique  quality  of  each  person.  In  describing 
minor  characters,  the  chief  necessity  is  to  give  each 
person  as  much  as  possible  of  the  definition  and  con- 
creteness  of  life.  Little  space  is  available,  and  the 
writer  may  be  driven  to  the  use  of  somewhat  mere- 
tricious figures.  The  perfect  figure  should  always  be 
sought,  but,  if  the  writer  cannot  discover  it,  the  liter- 
ally inaccurate  figure  may  be  better  than  flat  writing. 
The  general  aim  in  describing  persons  is  to  give  maxi- 
mum concreteness  to  the  whole  story,  and  seeming 
definition  will  sometimes  serve  as  well  as  actual 
definition. 

The  necessity  that  the  persons  of  a  story  be  de- 
scribed in  relation  to  it,  as  they  are  placed  in  the 
physical  setting,  requires  the  writer  to  realize  and 
regard  the  mechanical  limitations  of  the  story.  If  it 
is  told  in  the  first  person,  and  the  narrating  character 
perceives  another  in  the  distance,  a  description  of  such 
other  must  confine  itself  to  matters  apparent  at  a  dis- 
tance, until  the  persons  approach  one  another  more 
nearly.  The  same  necessity  obtains  where  the  story  is 
told  in  the  third  person,  from  the  viewpoint  of  a 
character  who  perceives  another  at  a  distance.  Like- 
wise, a  character  cannot  be  made  to  see  through  a 
house  or  a  mountain,  or  into  the  next  room.  A  good 
deal  has  been  written  on  this  matter,  but  from  the 
wrong  angle.  The  writer  should  not  seek  to  master  any 
abstract  rule,  rather  should  he  strive  to  visualize  his 


DESCRIPTION  117 

story  as  he  writes  it  from  the  viewpoint  from  which  he 
has  chosen  to  tell  it.  If  he  thus  gets  into  his  story^so 
to  speat — in  describing  he  will  unconsciously  respect 
the  mechanical  limitations  of  the  tale.  Moreover,  his 
attention  will  be  free  for  the  severe  task  of  expression, 
imdistracted  by  any  eye  to  precepts.  The  way  to  write 
a  story  is  to  picture  it  in  imagination  and  then  follow 
it  with  the  pen.  That  is  why  the  unpracticed  writer  of 
high  imaginative  powers  so  often  writes  with  a  strict 
if  unconcious  regard  for  the  laws  of  technique. 

Another  matter  as  to  the  description  of  per- 
sons is  worth  noting.  The  normal  human  being  has 
more  than  the  sense  of  sight;  he  can  also  hear, 
feel,  and  smell;  and  verbal  appeals  to  these  other 
senses  may  be  effective.  The  timbre  of  a  charac- 
ter's voice  or  sound  of  his  step,  the  feel  of  his  hand 
when  shaken,  an  odor  about  him  or  her,  as  of  liquor, 
tobacco,  or  perfume,  may  be  stated  in  describing  the 
person.  Such  a  descriptive  touch  will  often  prove 
most  useful,  the  more  so  because  it  gives  another 
dimension  to  the  person,  so  to  speak.  A  very  charac- 
teristic and  impressive  thing  about  Uriah  Keep  is  his 
handshake,  as  Copperfield  felt  it.  The  matter  will  be 
taken  up  again  in  discussing  the  technique  of  describ- 
ing setting,  where  it  necessarily  bulks  larger.* 

*A  good  deal  of  abstract  statement  might  be  made  as  to  the 
description  of  persons,  but  the  main  considerations  have  been 
stated.  The  whole  philosophy  of  this  phase  of  technique  rests 
on  the  necessity  that  every  line  of  a  story  be  given  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  concreteness  and  vivacity  of  life.  It  is  useless 
to  give  a  long  description  of  a  character  once  and  for  all  when 
he  first  comes  up  in  a  story.  Even  if  a  reader  gains  a  sharp 
impression  therefrom,  he  will  not  carry  it  with  him  through  the 
succeeding  events  involving  the  character.  His  first  impression 
of  the  person  must  be  kept  alive  by  repeated  descriptive  touches, 
not  so  much  because  the  person  must  be  described  adequately 
as  because  every  part  of  the  story  must  have  the  body  of  life. 


118  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

DESCRIPTION  OF  SETTING 

The  fiction  writer  is  a  dramatist  in  a  very  real 
sense,  but  he  cannot  depend  for  verisimilitude  on  flesh- 
and-blood  actors,  painted  scenery,  and  actual  proper- 
ties. He  must  describe  all  these  to  give  his  narrative 
verisimilitude  and  concreteness.  The  technique  of 
describing  persons  has  been  discussed,  and  the  tech- 
nique of  describing  mere  objects,  the  properties  of  the 
piece,  as  the  dagger  in  the  hand  of  an  assassin,  is  not 
so  much  a  part  of  the  technique  of  fiction  writing  as  of 
the  technique  of  writing  generally.  It  is  a  question 
of  rhetoric.  But  the  technique  of  describing  setting  is 
fictional  as  well  as  rhetorical,  that  is,  the  writer  of  a 
story  must  consider  what  he  should  describe  as  well 
as  how  he  should  describe  it.  His  task  is  more  highly 
selective  than  the  task  of  describing  the  persons  or 
properties  of  a  story.  They,  with  the  events  involving 
them,  are  the  story  itself;  the  setting  or  environment 
of  a  story  is  not,  but  merely  a  background  or  stage. 
Yet  sometimes,  as  in  the  story  of  atmosphere,  the  set- 
ting is  an  integral  and  necessary  part  of  the  fiction. 
One  can  only  say  that  it  all  depends. 

The  fact  that  the  setting  is  sometimes  an  integral 
part  of  the  story  and  sometimes  not  requires  the 
writer  to  set  to  work  differently  in  each  case.  In  writ- 
ing the  story  of  atmosphere,  he  must  regard  the  setting 
as  matter  for  reproduction  for  its  own  sake ;  in  writing 

The  distinction  is  fine,  but  real,  and  perhaps  may  be  made 
clearer  by  imagining  a  reader  witnessing  an  event  in  which  a 
friend  is  involved.  He  knows  his  friend,  as  he  can  know  no 
character  in  a  story;  nevertheless  he  sees  him  uninterruptedly 
as  the  event  develops.  To  counterfeit  the  process  in  a  story, 
descriptive  touches  as  to  the  persons  must  be  interspersed  with 
the  narrative  matter,  though  the  persons  have  been  described 
already.  A  story  should  describe  persons  in  action  and  repose. 


DESCRIPTION  119 

the  normal  story,  he  must  regard  the  setting  as  only 
incidental,  and  should  not  reproduce  it  unless  it  will 
clarify  the  course  of  events  for  a  reader  or  serve  to 
give  the  story  its  necessary  body  and  verisimilitude. 
The  story  of  atmosphere  requires  separate  treatment; 
here  only  the  technique  of  describing  the  setting  or 
settings  of  the  normal  story  will  be  discussed. 

As  stated,  in  writing  the  normal  story,  the  story 
where  interest  centers  in  the  course  of  events,  the 
writer  should  not  describe  setting  unless  it  will  clarify 
the  course  of  events  or  lend  body  to  the  fiction  in  the 
eyes  of  a  reader.  General  descriptive  writing  has  no 
other  function  to  perform.  Realization  of  the  truth 
will  lead  the  writer  to  avoid  writing  great  wastes  ol 
description.  If  a  particular  story  requires  that  the 
physical  conformation  of  a  neighborhood  be  brought 
out,  a  few  words  will  serve  better  than  many,  which 
will  be  apt  to  confuse  a  reader,  at  least  to  distract  his 
attention.  And  when  the  writer  describes  setting  to 
give  body  to  the  story,  scattered  descriptive  touches 
will  have  more  effect  than  a  single  isolated  block  of 
description.  It  is  another  aspect  of  the  matter  touched 
upon  in  relation  to  the  description  of  persons.  If  a 
story  is  to  have  the  concreteness,  definition,  and  vivac- 
ity of  life,  the  descriptive  quality  must  permeate  the 
whole,  both  as  to  the  persons  and  their  environment. 
The  descriptive  task  cannot  be  perf ormed  once  and  for 
all,  either  as  to  the  persons  or  the  setting,  any  more 
than  can  the  narrative  task.  Narration  continues 
throughout  the  whole  story,  for  it  is  the  story;  and 
likewise  description  must  accompany  each  item  of  nar- 
ration, for  description  is  a  part  or  quality  of  the  whole 
story.  Where  the  course  of  events  is  rapid,  their 
quick  succession  itself  will  counterfeit  a  like  phase  of 
life,  for  an  observer  would  note  the  events  as  such 
rather  than  the  setting.  But  where  the  course  of 


12C  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

events  is  more  leisurely,  descriptive  touches  as  to 
setting  will  be  necessary  to  counterfeit  such  a  phase  of 
life,  for  an  observer  would  note  not  only  the  happenings 
but  the  environment.  A  story  is  a  reproduction  of  a 
phase  of  life;  a  reader  is  its  observer;  and  the  whole 
must  be  made  to  stand  forth  for  him  as  a  like  spectacle 
would  show  in  actuality. 

The  other  necessity,  to  describe  setting  to  give  the 
story  verisimilitude  and  concreteness,  is  not  so  easy 
to  state  or  to  meet.  This  sort  of  descriptive  quality 
must  permeate  the  whole  story,  as  has  been  stated,  and 
its  introduction  or  creation  is  a  matter  of  difficulty. 
The  natural  and  best  way  to  conquer  the  secret  is  to 
imagine  the  course  of  events  while  standing  in  the 
shoes  of  the  person  from  whose  viewpoint  the  story  is 
told,  then  to  follow  them  with  the  pen.  Where  the 
character  would  see,  feel,  hear,  or  smell  something, 
state  the  impression  upon  him.  Thus  Kipling,  in 
"Without  Benefit  of  Clergy":  "  .  .  .  Old  Pir  Khan 
squatted  at  the  head  of  Holden's  horse,  his  police 
sabre  across  his  knees,  pulling  drowsily  at  a  big  water- 
pipe  that  croaked  like  a  bull-frog  in  a  pond.  Ameera's 
mother  sat  spinning  in  the  lower  veranda,  and  the 
wooden  gate  was  shut  and  barred.  The  music  of  a 
marriage  procession  came  to  the  roof  above  the  gentle 
hum  of  the  city,  and  a  string  of  flying-foxes  crossed 
the  face  of  the  low  moon."  Kipling  has  imagined  his 
story  as  Holden  would  have  lived  it;  not  only  has  he 
seen  through  Holden's  eyes — he  has  heard  with  Hold- 
en's  ears.  In  this  short  passage  there  are  three  ap- 
peals to  the  sense  of  sight,  and  two  to  the  sense  of 
hearing,  and  the  fragment  gains  by  stating  more  than 
visual  impressions. 

The  point  has  been  noted  in  discussing  the  descrip- 
tion of  persons,  but  is  worth  enlarging  upon.  The 
task  to  give  body  to  a  story  is  difficult  enough  at 


DESCRIPTION  121 

best,  and  the  writer  can  afford  to  neglect  no  resource. 
Of  the  five  senses  whereby  man  grasps  his  surround- 
ings, that  of  taste  is  probably  of  the  least  use  to  the 
writer  of  fiction,  but  the  senses  of  sight,  hearing,  smell, 
and  touch  can  all  be  utilized  on  occasion.  A  character 
at  sea  can  be  stated  to  have  seen  the  waves  of  a  storm, 
felt  the  force  of  the  gale  and  the  sting  of  driven  rain- 
drops, and  tasted  the  salt  spray,  also  to  have  smelt  the 
musty  fo'c'sle  when  he  went  below.  Each  touch  will 
give  the  whole  picture  added  reality  for  a  reader.  The 
beginning  writer  is  too  apt  to  rely  solely  upon  what  a 
character  might  have  seen.  A  deserted  house  has  a 
smell  as  characteristic  as  its  look,  and  the  fragrance 
of  violets  is  as  impressive  as  their  visual  beauty.  Night 
can  be  told  from  day  by  its  odor,  and  the  rattle  of  type- 
writer keys  in  an  office  is  as  suggestive  of  modern 
industry  as  a  serenade  is  of  other  days  and  other  loves. 
A  hero  can  feel  his  sweetheart's  soft  or  toil-roughened 
fingers  as  well  as  see  her  expensive  silks  and  furs  or 
cheap  and  much  worn  dress.  Life  is  a  complex  of 
many  sense-perceptions,  and  the  more  numerous  and 
varied  the  fleeting  impressions  a  character  is  stated  to 
have  caught,  the  more  concrete  and  real  the  story  will 
be  for  a  reader. 

Description  is  the  usual  but  not  the  happiest  term 
to  denote  the  general  process  of  giving  a  story  a  setting 
and  environment  of  its  own.  It  is — or  should  be — more 
than  a  process  of  picturing  scenes.  All  pertinent  and 
striking  sense-impressions  received  by  the  characters 
should  be  stated,  for  only  thus  can  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  just  representation  of  life  be  made.  The 
writer's  sole  object  is  to  give  the  fiction  the  concrete- 
ness  of  life;  it  cannot  be  achieved  by  painting  verbal 
pictures  for  a  reader,  but  it  can  be  achieved  by  stating 
justly  the  ways  in  which  the  totality  of  the  environ- 
ment affected  the  characters.  Just  description  of  the 


122  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

characters  will  make  them  real  men  and  women  for  a 
reader,  and  just  statement  of  the*  effects  of  their  en- 
vironment upon  them  will  make  them  real  people  in  a 
real  world. 

The  strictly  executive  technique  of  descriptive 
writing  is  not  hard  to  grasp,  however  hard  it  may  be 
to  find  the  desired  word.  The  impression  that  the 
character  involved  would  receive  first  should  be  stated 
first,  and  the  less  striking  details  should  follow  in  the 
order  of  their  impressiveness.  Thus,  in  describing  a 
skating  scene,  the  observant  character  should  be  made 
to  see  the  interweaving  skaters  and  to  hear  the 
peculiar  whinnying  ring  of  the  skates  before  he  sees 
individuals.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  visualizing,  or,  better, 
visualizing  and  living  the  story  in  the  shoes  of  the 
character  from  whose  viewpoint  it  is  told.  The  writer 
who  will  live  each  story  thus  in  imagination,  and  will 
state  the  successive  impressions  the  character  would 
naturally  receive  while  moving  through  such  a  chain  of 
events  in  real  life,  will  do  far  better  work  than  one  who 
strives  to  carry  in  his  head  a  body  of  rules  and  precepts 
and  to  write  with  observance  of  them.  Technique  can- 
not be  discussed  without  directly  stating  principles, 
but  the  business  of  actual  writing  is  natural,  not  me- 
chanical and  artificial.  The  writer  becomes  artificial 
precisely  when  he  forgets  he  is  writing  a  story  and 
begins  to  daub  in  descriptive  matter  without  relation  to 
the  characters  or  the  events.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  get 
inside  the  skin  of  the  character  from  whose  viewpoint 
the  particular  story  or  particular  part  of  the  story  is 
told,  to  see  with  his  eyes,  hear  with  his  ears,  smell 
taste,  and  feel  with  his  nerves,  and  to  state  no  impres- 
sion as  received  by  him  that  the  course  of  events  would 
not  allow  him  to  receive.  A  horse-thief  fleeing  from  a 
posse  will  have  no  eye  for  the  beauties  of  a  landscape. 
If  the  writer  desires  to  show  the  scene  for  the  sake  of 


DESCRIPTION  123 

its  contrast  with  such  an  event,  he  must  do  so  lightly 
and  quickly.  A  reader  will  be  mounted  with  the  pur- 
sued man,  and  his  eyes  will  be  ahead. 

As  to  the  matter  of  contrast  between  event  and 
setting,  no  rules  can  be  stated.  All  that  can  be  said 
is  that  sometimes  it  is  a  useful  device.  But  the  main 
purpose  of  descriptive  matter  in  the  normal  story  is 
to  give  it  concreteness,  and  generally  the  purpose  will 
be  realized  best  by  stating  the  sense-impressions  which 
would  be  received  in  actuality  by  the  characters.  A 
story  will  gain  much  in  naturalness  and  plausibility 
thereby,  for  the  same  reason  that  narration  in  the  first 
person  or  from  the  viewpoint  of  a  single  character  is 
the  most  natural  and  plausible  way  to  write,  if  the  par- 
ticular story  permits. 

One  other  thing  may  be  useful  to  note.  In  de- 
scribing a  person,  the  writer  should  strive  to  state  his 
unique  quality  as  an  individual;  in  describing  a  scene, 
also,  the  writer  should  seek  to  bring  out  its  unique 
quality.  That  quality  should  be  sifted  out  and  realized 
in  imagination,  and  then  the  writer  should  search  dili- 
gently for  the  few  telling  words  that  will  precipitate 
it.  As  the  story  moves  on,  men,  women,  and  children, 
houses,  ships,  and  electric  cars,  streets,  deserts,  and 
smiling  fields,  will  come  beneath  the  writer's  pen.  And 
they  must  all  be  given  reality,  not  for  their  own  sakes, 
but  for  the  sake  of  the  t story. 


CHAPTER  IX 

i 

SPEECH 

Potency  of  Dialogue — Mechanical  Distribution — Naturalness — 
Directness — Dialect — Situation — Three  Resources  to  Meet 
Demands  of  Situation — Physical  Effect — Ellipsis — Elements 
of  Language — Style — Verbs  of  Utterance — Transcription  of 
Speech  for  it  Own  Sake — Creative  Process. 

When  the  writer  of  a  story  is  not  using  narrative 
or  description,  he  will  be  transcribing  the  speech  of  his 
characters.  And  in  the  matter  of  transcribing  speech 
the  writer  of  fiction  has  a  chance  comparable  with  that 
of  the  dramatist  and  the  practitioner  in  the  graphic 
arts.  The  effect  of  narrative  or  description  upon  a 
reader  is  secondary  and  derivative ;  the  effect  upon  him 
of  written  speech  or  dialogue  is  very  nearly  primary. 
The  fiction  writer  has  not  the  actor's  studied  tones  to 
give  dialogue  complete  life  and  body,  but  the  appeal  of 
written  speech  is  infinitely  more  direct  and  compelling 
than  that  of  any  other  sort  of  writing.  A  word  is  a  word, 
whether  spoken  or  written,  and  cannot  be  read  without 
setting  up  some  echo  in  the  ear.  When  the  writer  of 
a  story  describes  its  hero,  a  reader  may  or  may  not  see 
an  image,  faint  or  distinct,  behind  the  words.  But 
when  the  writer  sets  down  his  hero's  words,  a  reader 
cannot  choose  but  hear.  Even  if  the  words  be  un- 
natural and  stilted,  they  will  be  heard.  That  is  why 
badly  managed  dialogue  is  so  potent  to  ruin  a  story. 

124 


SPEECH  125 

The  speech  of  the  characters  in  a  story  is  strongly  im- 
pressive, whether  for  good  or  ill.  The  more  powerful 
a  tool,  the  more  damage  it  will  do  if  mismanaged. 

Thus  the  essential  force  of  dialogue  or  written 
speech  may  be  a  handicap  or  an  assistance.  If  a  charac- 
ter's words  jar  upon  a  reader,  they  will  do  so  strongly , 
if  they  are  natural  and  in  keeping  with  the  whole  con- 
ception of  the  person,  they  will  do  much  to  give 
him  the  breath  of  life.  It  follows  that  the  writer  of 
fiction  should  give  due  attention  to  the  transcription  of 
speech,  the  more  so  because  superficially  the  task  is 
easy. 

Perhaps  the  first  consideration  is  the  mere  me- 
chanical distribution  of  dialogue.  In  real  life  only  the 
after-dinner  speaker  talks  at  inordinate  length.  Con- 
versation, except  that  of  the  bore,  is  essentially  frag- 
mentary. Not  only  is  each  person's  part  fragmentary, 
but  the  whole  conversation  is  usually  somewhat  brief. 
People  caught  in  a  more  or  less  rapid  sequence  of 
events  have  no  time  to  talk  at  length,  and  a  story  is  a 
more  or  less  rapid  sequence  of  events.  The  writer  must 
counterfeit  a  like  phase  of  life  with  his  story,  and  to 
do  so  he  must  mingle  the  mechanical  elements  of  the 
story  in  a  texture  pleasing  because  varied.  The  me- 
chanical elements  of  a  story  are  its  narrative,  its  de- 
scription, and  its  dialogue  or  speech  of  the  characters ; 
these  must  blend  and  intermingle,  varying  the  appeal 
to  a  reader  and  simulating  the  pattern  of  life.  An  un- 
failing sign  of  the  amateur,  at  least  of  the  amateur 
with  no  innate  sense  of  fictional  values,  is  a  story  made 
up  of  hard  and  angular  blocks  of  narration,  description, 
and  dialogue.  The  skilled  writer — if  the  particular 
story  permus,  a  proviso  always  to  be  understood — will 
intermingle  speech  with  action  and  description  with 
both.  Dialogue  should  no  more  be  written  pages  at  a 


126  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

time  than  should  description,  and  if  a  great  deal  of 
speech  must  be  transcribed  en  bloc,  it  should  be  broken 
up  to  some  extent  by  descriptive  touches  and  even  by 
narration  more  detailed  than  that  part  of  the  story 
naturally  calls  for. 

The  next  consideration  is  to  make  the  people  of  a 
story  talk  naturally.  The  necessity  has  affiliations 
with  the  necessity  that  the  speech  of  any  person  be 
made  characteristic,  for  dialogue  is  an  efficient  aid  in 
the  portrayal  of  character.  The  writer  must  make 
each  person  talk  like  a  human  being,  even  if  not  like 
some  particular  human  being.  Good,  nervous  dialogue 
will  be  full  of  elisions,  mere  exclamations,  unfinished 
sentences,  gaps  that  a  reader  will  bridge  readily  for 
himself.  He  will  be  skilled  in  the  business,  for  that 
is  the  kind  of  talk  addressed  to  him  every  day.  In 
more  sedate  and  leisurely  ages,  if  we  may  judge  from 
the  tales  then  written,  people  could  frame  a  sentence  on 
the  lips,  but  it  is  a  lost  art  now.  To  be  "literary"  in 
transcribing  speech  is  to  invoke  almost  certain  failure. 
"Literary"  dialogue  usually  is  ruinous.  A  reader's 
interest  may  survive  stilted  and  affected  narrative  or 
descriptive  writing,  for  most  readers  have  read  so  much 
of  such  writing  that  it  is  almost  expected,  but  stilted 
and  affected  dialogue  will  kill  interest  once  and  for  all. 
In  narrative  there  is  something  behind  the  word  for  the 
reader,  even  in  description  there  is  a  faint  something, 
but  in  dialogue  there  is  nothing  at  all.  The  word  is  the 
word ;  if  it  fails,  the  failure  is  total. 

Yet  it  will  not  do  to  be  quite  literal  in  transcribing 
speech.  If  the  speech  of  real  life  is  broken  and  frag- 
mentary, it  is  also  impossibly  wordy  and  purposeless. 
The  lawyer  who  has  spent  weary  hours  in  reading 
transcripts  of  testimony  knows  the  fact  to  his  cost. 
The  writer  of  fiction  has  not  space  to  set  down  with 
minute  accuracy  just  what  his  people  probably  would 


SPEECH  127 

have  said  during  the  progress  of  the  story;  he  must 
counterfeit  the  auditory  impression  of  real  speech  by 
eliding  and  leaving  sentences  unfinished;  but  this  me- 
chanically broken  and  abrupt  speech  must  have  the 
purpose  and  direction  which  is  wanting  in  real  speech. 
The  characters  must  not  only  talk  naturally ;  they  must 
say  certain  definite  things  and  convey  definite  and 
necessary  information,  directly  or  by  implication. 
There  is  little  need  to  emphasize  here  the  necessity  that 
the  writer  have  some  fictional  purpose  in  making  a 
character  say  something,  except  to  warn  against  tran- 
scribing speech  solely  for  the  sake  of  its  suppositious 
intrinsic  wit  or  vivacity,  for  each  story  will  assert  its 
own  claims  over  the  talk  of  the  characters. 

The  question  of  dialect  has  been  debated  often  and 
at  length,  both  for  and  against.  There  are  many  fine 
stories  in  dialect  in  whole  or  in  part,  but  their  merit 
does  not  result  from  the  employment  of  dialect,  though 
the  dialect  may  be  a  necessary  part  of  some  of  them. 
In  the  larger  sense,  the  question  is  merely  one  of 
naturalness.  The  pronunciation  of  no  man  is  in  exact 
accord  with  the  ideal  standard  of  the  dictionary;  all 
have  mannerisms  of  speech  and  accent.  In  some  sec- 
tions such  mannerisms  are  so  common  and  marked  as  to 
form  a  dialect,  almost  a  patois,  and,  if  a  story  in- 
volves a  charactcer  from  such  a  district,  fidelity  to  fact 
requires  the  writer  to  write  dialect  when  the  person 
is  speaking.  Dialect  in  a  story  must  be  intelligible  to 
cne  unfamiliar  with  it,  which  requires  the  writer  to 
iron  out  its  greatest  divergences  from  the  normal  in  an 
endeavor  to  retain  its  piquancy  while  avoiding  its  ob- 
scurity. The  question  is  not  one  of  technique,  but  one 
of  material.  The  only  insistence  of  technique  as  to 
dialect  is  that  it  must  be  intelligible. 

Unquestionably  there  is  prejudice  against  the  story 
told  wholly  in  strongly  marked  dialect  by  a  narrat- 


128  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

ing  character,  both  on  the  part  of  editors  and  readers. 
The  type  had  a  vogue  some  years  ago,  but  its  commer- 
cial and  artistic  defect  is  that  it  tends  to  be  unintel- 
ligible. 

Dialect  is  a  useful  aid  in  characterization,  as  is  any 
slighter  mannerism  of  speech.  The  matter  will  be 
taken  up  in  discussing  the  portrayal  of  character. 
Here  I  am  concerned  only  with  the  more  general  as- 
pects of  the  management  of  dialogue. 

As  stated,  the  first  necessity  in  writing  dialogue 
is  to  place  the  word  where  it  would  be  spoken  in  life, 
during  the  action,  not  in  isolated  masses  of  speech. 
The  second  necessity  is  to  write  naturally,  and  yet  to 
invest  the  hasty  and  elided  speech  of  the  characters 
with  purpose  in  the  fiction.  Dialogue  must  be  not  only 
natural  and  easy;  it  also  must  be  significant,  signifi- 
cant in  relation  to  life — which  is  the  matter  of  natural- 
ness re-stated — significant  in  relation  to  the  characters, 
and  significant  in  relation  to  the  story.  That  is  to  say, 
the  justly  written  bit  of  dialogue  will  be  natural,  will 
illustrate  character,  and  will  inform  a  reader,  directly 
or  by  implication,  of  something  he  must  know  if  he  is 
to  catch  the  full  savor  of  the  story.  These  are  the  most 
general  conditions  to  be  borne  in  mind  in  writing  dia- 
logue. It  remains  to  discuss  the  necessity  that  a 
writer  consider  the  matter  of  situation  while  tran- 
scribing speech.  The  necessity  requires  discussion. 
Not  only  is  it  stringent,  but  it  is  politely  ignored  by  too 
many  books  on  technique. 

The  abstract  statement  is  that  the  same  person 
will  talk  differently  according  to  his  situation  at  the 
moment.  Jones  is  Jones,  of  course,  but  the  Jones  who 
discusses  preparedness  with  Smith  is  a  different  Jones 
from  him  who  telephones  to  summon  the  doctor  for  his 
dying  child,  and  his  speech  in  each  case  will  not  be  the 
same.  My  lady  will  not  berate  her  maid  for  a  fault  as 


SPEECH  129 

she  will  reprove  her  lover,  and  the  head  bookkeeper 
talking  to  a  subordinate  and  to  the  boss  would  impress 
a  listener  as  two  different  persons.  The  man  and 
his  speech  are  influenced  by  the  event.  The  writer  of 
fiction,  being  under  constant  necessity  to  counterfeit 
life,  must  keep  the  speech  of  his  characters  in  accord 
with  the  situation  as  well  as  with  the  general  looseness 
of  actual  talk. 

It  may  be  said  that  this  necessity  to  write  dialogue 
with  an  eye  to  the  situation  of  the  persons  is  merely  a 
more  narrow  phase  of  the  general  necessity  to  be 
natural.  That  is  true.  The  writer  will  never  go  astray 
who  lives  his  story  in  imagination  and  sets  down  the 
speech  of  the  characters  as  it  would  have  been  phrased 
in  actuality.  The  only  trouble  is  to  determine  just  how 
the  persons  would  have  spoken,  and  it  is  a  trouble  be- 
cause it  requires  more  than  a  vivid  imagination.  Imag- 
ination will  embody  the  course  of  events  for  a  writer, 
will  touch  in  the  setting  with  glowing  color,  but  imag- 
ination alone  will  not  supply  the  words  spoken.  To  find 
them,  the  writer  must  employ  his  intellectual  faculties 
as  well  as  his  imaginative  powers,  and  precisely  for  the 
same  reason  that  the  characters  must  employ  their 
intellectual  faculties  in  speaking.  One  who  writes  a 
story  lives  vicariously,  lives  another's  life  for  tne  time 
being,  and  where  that  other  would  be  forced  to  think, 
as  in  speaking,  the  writer  must  think  likewise.  Where 
the  other  would  be  forced  only  to  observe,  as  in  wit- 
nessing events  or  observing  setting,  the  writer  can  rely 
solely  on  his  imaginative  powers. 

There  will  be  little  difficulty  in  meeting  the  de- 
mands of  the  situation  that  is  casual  and  commonplace. 
Speech  that  is  merely  easy  and  natural  is  adequate.  If 
the  incident  is  not  particularly  significant  in  a  dramatic 
or  emotional  sense,  the  way  that  the  character  would 
talk  in  such  circumstances  is  not  hard  to  find.  The 


130          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

story  requires  that  a  Southern  gentleman  of  the  old 
school  welcome  a  stranger  to  his  house,  let  us  say;  it 
will  not  be  hard  to  find  the  host's  words  on  that  occa- 
sion. But  suppose  he  must  discover  a  few  pages  far- 
ther on  that  the  stranger  is  his  daughter's  seducer. 
What  will  he  say  ?  The  writer  must  find  for  him  words 
that  will  chime  with  the  tensity  and  dramatic  value  of 
the  situation.  To  meet  the  necessity  the  writer  has 
three  resources. 

The  first  lies  apart  from  the  matter  of  speech. 
By  just  portrayal  of  the  physical  effect  of  such  a  discov- 
ery upon  a  character  the  writer  will  accomplish  much. 
To  put  it  flippantly,  the  character  will  be  made  to  talk 
naturally  by  making  him  speechless.  To  put  it  justly, 
in  such  a  heightened  moment  in  a  story  narration 
should  be  very  detailed,  and  the  writer  should  show  the 
physical  effect  of  any  discovery  upon  a  character  before 
transcribing  the  words  born  of  the  moment. 

The  second  resource  of  the  writer  to  meet  the 
necessity  that  a  character's  words  fit  the  emotional  and 
dramatic  qualities  of  a  situation  is  largely  mechanical. 
Even  casual  speech  is  elliptical  and  exclamatory; 
speech  born  of  excitement  or  agony  of  soul  is  strongly 
so.  The  more  broken  and  fragmentary  the  character's 
speech,  *the  greater  the  suggestion  of  emotional  stress 
and  upheaval. 

The  third  resource  of  the  writer  is  a  matter  of 
diction.  English  is  a  language  compounded  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  and  Latin  and  Greek  elements.  The  primary 
basis  of  the  tongue  is  Anglo-Saxon;  that  is  why  it  is 
English,  and  not  a  Romance  language.  We  learn  the 
simpler,  less  abstract  part  of  our  vocabulary,  the  part 
that  stands  for  fundamentals,  in  childhood ;  the  rest  is 
acquired  later.  Not  only  is  the  Anglo-Saxon  word  the 
word  we  know  best;  it  is  also  the  word  which  will 
express  our  deepest  loves  and  dreads  and  hates.  The 


SPEECH  131 

Latin  element  of  the  language  gives  it  its  flexibility  and 
its  capacity  to  express  ideas,  but  its  capacity  to  express 
emotion  resides  in  its  Anglo-Saxon  element.  Love, 
hate,  birth,  death,  God,  devil,  father,  mother,  sister, 
brother,  sin,  lust,  greed,  filth,  hope,  care,  weep,  laugh, 
smile — all  are  strictly  English  words  of  Teutonic  origin, 
and  all  are  much  more  forceful  and  suggestive  or  con- 
notative  than  any  Anglicised  Latin  equivalents.  The 
writer  of  fiction  should  realize  the  fact,  and  should 
make  his  people  use  strictly  English  words  when 
caught  in  a  pregnant  situation.  A  lawyer,  in  discuss- 
ing a  case,  properly  may  be  made  to  employ  the  word 
deceased,  for  instance,  but  when  informed  that  his  wife 
has  died  suddenly,  "Dead?"  he  should  be  made  to  say, 
"Dead?"  That  is  very  obvious,  of  course,  but  it  will 
serve  for  an  illustration.* 

The  question  of  character  intrudes  here.  All 
speech  should  be  characteristic  of  the  person  uttering 
it,  but  the  necessity  that  the  word  should  fit  the  mo- 
ment is  more  stringent  than  the  necessity  that  the 
word  should  fit  the  person,  provided  that  the  moment 
is  so  tense  that  its  force  might  be  expected  to  strip  any 
husk  of  mannerisms  from  the  persons  involved.  In- 
deed, the  more  strikingly  individual  the  casual  speech 
of  a  character,  the  greater  will  be  the  effect  of  making 
him  utter  in  a  crisis  the  broken  and  disjointed  English 
words  that  come  to  the  lips  of  all  of  us  when  our  loves 
or  our  pocketbooks  are  threatened. 

After  stating  the  necessity  to  make  dialogue  ac- 

*The  writer  should  not  have  an  eye  to  the  origin  of  his  words 
only  while  writing  dialogue.  In  narrating  the  homely  and  com- 
monplace event,  and  in  describing  everyday  scenes,  where  the 
value  lies  in  everyday  associations,  the  suggestive  English 
word  should  be  used.  The  matter  has  been  touched  upon,  though 
not  in  these  terms.  The  whole  endeavor  in  fiction  writing  gen- 
erally should  be  to  make  the  word  chime  with  the  substance. 


132          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

cord  with  situation,  and  after  pointing-  out  the  three 
resources  of  the  writer  to  this  end,  a  word  of  caution 
may  not  be  out  of  place.  In  all  human  probability  the 
writer  will  have  for  the  significant  situations  of  his 
story  a  much  keener  feeling  and  appreciation  that  any 
reader.  There  is  some  danger  that  the  writer's  feeling 
for  his  own  situations  will  lead  him  to  make  his  people 
talk  a  thought  too  brokenly  for  acceptance  by  a  reader 
without  the  same  keen  appreciation  of  all  the  emotional 
and  dramatic  values  of  the  situations  of  the  story.  The 
danger  cannot  be  overcome  by  toning  down  the  dia- 
logue ;  the  writer  must  force  a  reader  to  feel  the  power 
of  all  the  situations  of  the  story.  In  other  words,  dia- 
logue in  tense  situations  must  meet  tne  fact  of  situa- 
tion, and  each  situation  itself  must  be  built  up  for  a 
reader  by  proper  development  and  adequate  writing  of 
the  whole  story.  The  art  of  fiction  is  a  whole,  as  a 
story  is  a  whole,  and  perfect  handling  of  one  element 
alone  of  his  story,  as  the  dialogue,  will  avail  the  writer 
nothing. 

In  transcribing  speech,  the  less  the  writer  thinks 
about  the  style  or  manner  in  which  he  has  chosen  to 
tell  the  story  the  better.  The  first  consideration  is  to 
be  natural,  that  is,  to  write  as  some  real  person  would 
talk,  and,  if  possible,  to  write  as  some  particular  person 
would  talk.  But  the  general  tone  of  the  story  must  be 
considered.  The  necessity  is  less  stringent  or  non- 
existent in  writing  the  novel,  with  its  permissible  vari- 
ety of  texture,  than  in  writing  the  short  story  of  unity 
of  effect.  If  the  people  of  a  story  are  super-normal, 
their  lips  must  not  drop  banalities.  That  is  a  matter 
of  character.  But  if  the  single  effect  sought  to  be 
produced  by  a  story  is  of  horror,  for  instance,  its  people 
cannot  be  permitted  to  make  remarks  that  will  hinder 
the  attainment  of  the  effect,  which  is  a  matter  of  pre- 
serving the  general  tone  of  the  story.  The  speech  of 


SPEECH  133 

the  characters  must  be  in  keeping  with  them,  in  keep- 
ing with  the  significant  situations,  and  in  keeping  with 
the  story  as  a  whole. 

There  is  one  point  about  the  management  of  dia- 
logue which  should  be  the  less  neglected  because  it  is 
purely  mechanical  and  very  easy.  A  page  of  dialogue 
should  not  present  to  a  reader  a  monotonous  succession 
of  "he  saids"  and  "she  saids,"  simply  because  the 
reader  will  feel  the  repetition  and  some  of  the  illusion 
of  the  story  be  lost.  The  verbs  characterizing  utter- 
ance are  infinite  in  number ;  moreover,  it  is  frequently 
possible  to  set  down  nothing  but  the  words  of  the  speak- 
ing character.  Thus  Henry  Sydnor  Harrison,  in  "V. 
V.'sEyes.": 

"'Did  she  hurt  herself?'  said  Carlisle,  third-per- 
sonally,  to  the  elder  girl,  who  had  suspended  her  game 
to  stare  wide-eyed.  'What  on  earth  is  the  matter?' 

'The  reply  was  tragically  simple : 

"  'A  lady  stepped  on  her  Junebug,' ' 

"Sure  enough,  full  on  the  vestibule  floor  lay  the 
murdered  slum-bug,  who  had  too  hardily  ventured  to 
cross  a  wealthy  benevolent's  path.  The  string  was  yet 
tied  to  the  now  futile  hind-leg.  Carlisle,  lingering,  re- 
pressed her  desire  to  laugh. 

"  'Oh !  .  .  .  Well,  don't  you  think  you  could  catch 
her  a  new  one,  perhaps  ?' 

"  'Bopper  he  mout  ketch  her  a  new  one  mebbe  to- 
morrow, mom  .  .  .  Hiesh,  Rebecca!' 

"Moved  by  some  impulse  in  her  own  bouyant  mood, 
Carlisle  touched  the  littlest  girl  on  the  shoulder  with 
a  well-gloved  finger. 

"  'Here — Rebecca,  poor  child !  .  .  .  You  can  buy 
yourself  something  better  than  Junebugs.' 

"The  proprietor  of  the  deceased  bug,  having  raised 
her  damp  dark  face,  ceased  crying  instantly.  Over  the 


134          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

astounding  windfall  the  chubby  fingers  closed  with  a 
gesture  suggesting  generations  of  acquisitiveness. 

"  'Is  it  hers  to  keep  T  spoke  her  aged  sister,  in  a 
scared  voice.  'That  there's  a  dollar,  mum.' 

"  'Hers  to  keep . . .'  replied  the  goddess,  smiling." 

Dialogue  so  managed  is  infinitely  more  natural  and 
fitting  than  the  he-said,  she-said  sort.  Of  course,  the 
more  characteristic  the  speech  of  the  characters,  the 
less  the  need  for  verbs  of  utterance.  The  primary  office 
of  such  verbs  is  to  indicate  the  person  who  is  speaking, 
and,  if  the  words  spoken  do  that,  the  verb  may  be 
omitted.  The  secondary  office  of  verbs  of  utterance  is 
to  characterize  the  manner  of  speech,  and  here  it  is  well 
not  to  be  too  extreme.  A  character  may  snarl  or  bellow 
or  invite  or  plead,  for  instance,  but  if  he  is  made  to 
flame  in  words  there  will  be  a  suggestion  of  strain  and 
artificiality  for  a  reader.  Intelligibility  and  suitable— 
not  unsuitable — variety  should  be  the  writer's  aims  in 
managing  dialogue. 

The  total  amount  of  dialogue  any  story  will  con- 
tain depends  on  its  nature  and  character.  Possibly  it 
is  true  that  the  more  strictly  dramatic  a  story,  the 
greater  will  be  the  proportion  of  dialogue  to  the  rest 
of  the  text.  At  any  rate,  a  writer  should  never 
transcribe  speech  at  any  length  simply  for  its  own 
sake  in  an  endeavor  to  trick  a  reader  into  thinking 
that  the  story  is  livelier  than  it  is.  Dialogue  is  attrac- 
tive to  a  reader,  but  it  is  attractive  in  a  story  only 
when  it  is  an  essential  element  of  the  story.  The 
writer  should  not  depend  on  the  intrinsic  wit  and 
vivacity  of  his  characters'  speech.  Even  if  it  is  inter- 
esting in  itself,  apart  from  the  story,  the  fact  will  not 
help  the  story  as  such,  for  a  reader's  attention  will  be 
distracted  from  its  movement.  Mr.  Dooley's  talk  is 
beautiful,  read  apart  and  by  itself ;  thrust  into  a  short 
story,  it  would  hurt  the  tale. 


SPEECH  135 

Finally,  a  word  as  to  the  actual  creative  process 
of  writing  dialogue.  The  way  to  narrate  is  to  live  and 
see  the  story's  happenings  in  imagination;  the  way  to 
describe  is  to  feel  the  totality  of  the  story's  environ- 
ment or  setting  in  imagination  as  some  character  or 
characters  must  have  felt  it ;  and  the  way  to  write  dia- 
logue is  to  be  each  speaking  character  in  turn  for  a 
space,  and  to  write  as  the  particular  person  would  have 
spoken.  As  stated  above,  the  writer  will  have  to  think 
as  well  as  to  imagine.  He  will  have  to  comprehend  the 
essential  nature  of  each  speaking  character,  his  per- 
sonality, education,  and  habits  of  life  and  mind,  in 
order  to  discover  the  words  that  would  be  called  forth 
from  such  a  person  by  each  new  event.  The  task  is 
not  easy.  But  the  writer  should  bring  his  full  powers 
to  bear  upon  it,  for  the  dialogue  of  a  story  is  tremen- 
dously effective,  whether  for  good  or  ill. 


CHAPTER  X 
PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER 

The  Three  Modes  of  Characterization — Dialogue — Action — De- 
scription or  Direct  Statement — Aims  of  Characterization — 
To  Show  the  Nature — To  Show  the  Man  as  a  Physical  Being 
— Character  and  Plot — Characterization  by  Speech — Charac- 
terization by  Statement — Characterization  by  Action. 

Characterization  is  an  unlovely  term,  but  it  stands 
for  much.  In  fact,  it  stands  for  so  much  that  it  is  the 
hardest  point  of  technique  to  discuss  adequately.  In 
the  fiction  writer's  vocabulary,  it  stands  for  things 
as  diverse  as  the  necessity  that  the  whole  action 
of  a  story  be  significant  in  relation  to  character,  and 
the  necessity  that  the  persons  of  the  fiction  seem  real 
and  individual,  apart  from  any  unique  quality  of  their 
actions.  Whether  the  action  of  a  story  is  significant 
in  relation  to  character  depends  upon  whether  the 
writer  has  discovered  a  real  plot  and  developed  it  prop- 
erly ;  whether  the  persons  of  a  story  seem  tangible  and 
unique  apart  from  their  actions  depends  upon  the 
writer's  skill  in  describing  them  and  transcribing  their 
speech.  That  is  to  say,  characterization  is  a  matter 
accomplished  by  narration,  by  description,  and  by  the 
transcription  of  speech.  A  reader  of  a  story  has  a  clue 
to  the  natures  of  its  people  in  their  actions,  in  their 
words,  and  in  what  the  writer  has  to  say  about  them. 

It  may  be  well  to  enlarge  somewhat  on  the  respec- 

136 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER         137 

live  functions  of  the  three  modes  of  characterization. 
Dialogue,  action,  and  description  or  direct  statement  by 
the  author  all  serve  to  give  the  character  concerned 
individuality  in  the  eyes  of  a  reader,  but  all  do  not 
function  in  precisely  the  same  manner  or  to  precisely 
the  same  end.  A  few  illustrations  will  make  this 
clearer. 

Suppose  a  story  involving  a  character  whose  most 
salient  trait  is  cruelty.  The  author  may  demonstrate 
this  quality  in  the  person  by  stating  directly  that  he 
is  cruel,  by  showing  him  in  wantonly  heartless  actions, 
and  by  placing  on  his  lips  words  which  only  a  cruel 
man  would  utter.  So  far,  so  good.  Each  sort  of 
demonstration  will  add  something  to  a  reader's  realiza- 
tion of  the  character.  But  more  is  necessary.  Cruelty 
is  not  a  particularly  unique  trait;  moreover,  if  a  trait 
is  unique,  merely  investing  a  character  with  it  will  not 
serve  to  give  him  the  solidity  and  liveliness  of  a  real 
person.  Whether  cruelty  or  any  other  trait  is  brought 
out,  if  it  alone  is  brought  out,  the  person  will  be  a  dis- 
embodied moral  attribute  rather  than  a  man  or  woman. 
To  secure  a  maximum  effect  upon  a  reader,  the  writer 
must  manage  to  show  some  particular  cruel  person 
rather  than  a  cruel  person.  And  he  must  resort  to  the 
same  means  employed  to  show  the  strict  character- 
trait,  description  or  direct  statement,  dialogue,  and 
action.  But  the  writer's  aim  will  be  different.  He  will 
be  concerned  with  the  person's  appearance  and  effect 
upon  an  observer  or  listener  rather  than  with  his  na- 
ture. As  Stevenson  did  for  Villon  in  "A  Lodging  for 
the  Night,"  the  writer  of  a  story  involving  a  cruel 
person  may  call  him  a  "rag  of  a  man,  dark,  little,  and 
lean,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  thin  black  locks,"  or  may 
employ  any  other  combination  of  words  that  will  give 
a  definite  picture  of  the  man,  viewed  merely  as  a  physi- 
cal object,  whether  he  be  thin  or  fat,  ruddy  or  pale,  tall 


138  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

or  short.  And,  in  setting  down  a  cruel  person's 
speeches,  the  writer  not  only  may  make  them  cruel  in 
content,  but  also  may  make  them  unique  and  individual 
by  some  mannerism  of  speech. 

What  I  am  trying  to  show  is  the  fact  that  charac- 
terization, as  the  term  is  commonly  employed,  includes 
description  as  well  as  the  strict  portrayal  of  character. 
I  have  taken  up  the  matter  of  the  description  of  per- 
sons under  that  head,  and  I  shall  take  up,  in  this 
chapter,  the  matter  of  speech  as  both  illustrating 
character  and  individualizing  the  person.  The  whole 
difficulty  of  discussing  technique  lies  in  the  necessity 
to  treat  in  isolation  matters  which  are  influencial  in 
numerous  directions  in  a  story.  In  the  latter  part  of 
this  book  I  am  following  the  conventional  mode  of  dis- 
cussing separately  the  matters  of  description  of  per- 
sons, dialogue,  and  the  portrayal  of  character,  but 
only  after  much  pondering  whether  such  treatment  is 
advisable.  The  advantage  is  clearness;  the  disadvan- 
tage is  loss  of  relation  between  matters  mutually  in- 
fluential. For  instance,  writing  dialogue  is  descriptive 
writing  in  a  very  real  sense.  A  reader  of  a  story 
stands  in  the  position  of  an  observer  of  certain  per- 
sons. Their  mannerisms  of  speech,  which  come  to  him 
through  the  ear,  serve  to  build  up  his  total  impression 
of  them  as  much  as  their  physical  appearance,  which 
comes  to  him  through  the  eye. 

The  process  of  characterization,  then,  however  ac- 
complished, is  the  result  of  two  very  different  aims  on 
the  part  of  the  writer  of  a  -story.  The  first  aim  is  to 
show  the  essential  natures  of  the  people  of  the  fiction, 
and  may  be  attained  by  illustration  in  action,  by  direct 
statement,  and  by  transcribing  their  speech.  The 
second  aim  is  to  make  them  appear  real  men  and 
women,  apart  from  their  natures,  and  may  be  attained 
by  description — which  is  direct  statement — by  tran- 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER         139 

scribing  their  speech,  and  even  by  action.  In  all  three 
matters  of  narration,  description,  and  dialogue  the 
double  process  may  go  on.  Narrating  a  character's 
victorious  fight  with  a  bigger  man  will  leave  on  a 
reader  a  twin  impression  of  the  person's  strength — a 
physical  attribute — and  courage — an  attribute  more 
strictly  of  character.  When  Stevenson,  describing 
Villon,  states  that  the  wolf  and  pig  struggled  in  his 
face,  a  reader  is  made  to  see  the  cruel  sensuality  of  the 
man's  face  as  a  physical  object,  and  to  feel  the  cruel 
sensuality  of  his  nature  as  a  spiritual  fact.  If  an 
avaricious  character  is  made  to  make  a  miserly  speech, 
a  reader  will  have  a  clue  to  his  nature ;  if  he  is  made  to 
make  it  with  a  lisp  or  stutter,  there  will  be  a  descriptive 
touch  as  well.  Characterization  may  be  accomplished 
by  narration,  by  description,  and  by  dialogue,  and 
characterization,  as  the  term  is  commonly  used,  in- 
cludes the  description  of  persons  as  physical  objects 
as  well  as  the  strict  portrayal  of  character. 

The  writer  of  fiction  who  seeks  to  acquire  the 
technique  of  characterization  should  note  two  facts. 
The  sort  of  characterization  which  consists  in  display- 
ing the  essential  spiritual  natures  of  the  people  of  a 
story  is  largely  a  matter  of  plot,  of  the  sequence  and 
character  of  each  person's  actions.  If  the  writer 
states  that  John  is  miserly,  and  puts  miserly  words  on 
his  lips,  the  reader  will  never  believe  in  John's  avarice 
if  he  does  a  generous  thing  in  the  story.  Actions 
speak  louder  than  words.  A  reader  will  believe  in  John's 
avarice  from  the  writer's  mere  statement  and  John's 
words,  if  John's  actions  are  not  significant  adversely  to 
the  trait.  In  other  words,  personality  and  event  must 
have  true  relation,  on  account  of  the  inherent  nature 
of  a  plot,  a  matter  previously  discussed.  The  second 
fact  for  the  writer  of  fiction  to  note  is  that  the  sort 
of  characterization  which  consists  in  giving  the  peo- 


140  THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   FICTION  WRITING 

pie  of  a  story  the  vivacity  and  concreteness  of  real  men 
and  women  is  superficial  but  extremely  important.  A 
story  is  concerned  with  the  spiritual  natures  of  its  peo- 
ple; it  shows  their  growth  or  decay;  the  process  is 
the  story  itself,  particularly  in  the  case  of  the  story 
of  character.  But  a  story  does  not  deal  with  disem- 
bodied moral  attributes.  It  deals  with  men  and  women, 
and,  if  it  is  to  be  effective,  a  reader  must  receive  some 
definite  physical  impression  of  each  person  as  well  as 
a  knowledge  of  his  nature.  In  the  whole  philosophy 
of  fiction  writing,  characterization,  as  commonly  under- 
stood, functions  thus:  the  natures  of  the  several  major 
characters  are  primary  elements  of  the  fiction,  as  are 
the  events;  the  impression  an  observer  and  listener 
would  receive  from  each  person  must  be  built  up  for 
a  reader  that  the  fiction  may  have  the  concreteness  and 
reality  of  life  for  him. 

Speech,  direct  statement,  and  action,  the  several 
means  whereby  characterization  in  its  two  aspects  may 
be  accomplished,  now  may  be  discussed. 

CHARACTERIZATION  BY  SPEECH 

As  indicated,  characterization  is  a  double  process. 
The  writer  endeavors  to  reveal  the  natures  of  his 
people  and  to  individualize  them  in  a  more  superficial 
but  equally  important  sense.  Their  speech  may  be 
made  to  reveal  their  spiritual  natures,  and  it  may  be 
made  to  individualize  them. 

The  process  of  making  speech  reveal  character 
strictly  is  not  difficult  in  itself,  though  it  may  be  diffi- 
cult to  do  so  unobstrusively.  A  sentimental  man  will 
reveal  his  sentimentality  when  he  says  sentimental 
things,  just  as  a  hypocrite  will  reveal  his  hypocrisy  in 
hypocritical  words.  Cruel  words  will  reveal  cruelty  in 
the  person  who  utters  them,  and  generous  words  will 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER         141 

indicate  that  their  speaker  is  generous.  So  far  as  pos- 
sible, the  speech  of  any  character  should  have  relation 
to  that  phase  of  his  character  which  is  significant 
in  the  story.  The  cruel  man  may  be  avaricious  also, 
but,  if  his  cruelty  and  not  his  avarice  is  the  trait  which 
has  influence  upon  the  events  of  the  story,  his  words 
should  reveal  his  cruelty  rather  than  his  avarice.  The 
content  of  his  speeches  should  indicate  his  possession 
of  that  trait  of  his  character  which  is  influential  as 
to  the  events  of  the  story.* 

The  difficulty  will  be  to  find  a  natural  place  for 
these  indicative  speeches.  The  primary  necessity  in 
fiction  writing  is  to  be  unforced  and  natural,  and  a 
character  cannot  be  made  to  say  words  indicative  of 
his  inner  nature  unless  he  would  naturally  utter  them 
under  the  influence  of  the  circumstances  of  the  mo- 
ment. Here,  again,  the  way  to  write  is  to  get  into  the 
skin  of  the  person  involved,  to  live  the  story  vicariously 
in  his  person,  and,  when  events  would  naturally  call 
from  him  words  revealing  his  pertinent  trait,  to  tran- 
scribe them.  Primarily,  a  story  is  a  story,  and  its 
writer  must  meet  all  its  necessities  within  its  limita- 
tions. 

Lack  of  space  forbids  giving  examples  of  the 
revelation  of  character  by  speech.  Dickens  will  prove 
a  profitable  study  in  this  connection.  The  words  of 
Pecksniff,  for  instance,  reveal  as  much  of  the  soul  of 

*A  great  deal  of  close  argument  might  be  developed  here. 
A  plot  is  a  chain  of  events  influencing  and  influenced  by  charac- 
ter, and  by  character  is  meant  not  persons  but  traits.  In  some 
story,  let  us  say,  the  avarice  of  one  man  brings  him  into  con- 
flict with  another,  also  impelled  by  avarice.  The  conflict,  of 
course,  is  not  between  two  disembodied  attributes,  but  between 
two  persons,  and  the  writer  of  such  a  story  must  individualize 
them.  He  should  endeavor  to  give  a  reader  an  idea  of  how  they 
look,  by  describing  them,  and  of  how  they  talk,  by  individualiz- 
ing their  speech.  But  he  need  not  emphasize  nor  even  bring  out 


142          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

Pecksniff  as  we  need  to  know.  All  good  stories,  in 
greater  or  lesser  degree,  display  the  method  in  use. 

The  second  use  of  his  characters'  words  to  the 
writer  of  fiction  is  to  individualize  them.  It  is  not  a 
matter  of  content,  but  one  of  manner.  Irrespective 
of  what  the  person  says,  the  way  he  says  it,  if  unique, 
will  serve  to  increase  the  definition  of  a  reader's  con- 
ception of  him.  If  a  character  is  made  to  stutter,  he 
will  gain  in  actuality  and  concreteness  for  a  reader. 
The  instance  is  coarse,  but  will  serve  to  indicate  what  is 
meant.  Dickens  is  unrivalled  in  his  capacity  to  employ 
this  device,  although  the  writer  of  a  short  story  or 
relatively  compact  novel  will  meet  difficulties  in  follow- 
ing Dickens'  technique  of  characterization.  The 
"demmit"  of  Mantalini,  the  "dispoged"  of  Sairey  Gamp, 
the  greasiness  of  Chadband's  words,  the  rounded  peri- 
ods of  the  immortal  Micawber  give  a  reader  the  greater 
part  of  his  idea  of  each  person. 

This  sort  of  characterization  may  well  be  called 
description.  The  aim  is  not  to  reveal  the  person's  in- 
ner nature — though  the  content  of  a  mannered  speech 
may  do  that,  of  course — but  to  add  to  the  definition  and 
reality  of  any  attempted  picture  of  the  person  by  call- 
ing in  the  sense  of  hearing.  Unlike  the  effect  of  de- 
scriptive words  on  a  reader,  the  effect  of  written 
speech  is  nearly  primary,  though  it  lacks  something 
of  the  freshness  and  impressiveness  of  the  spoken 
word.  Writing  descriptive  of  a  character  and  his  man- 
nered words  function  together  to  individualize  the  per- 
son for  a  reader.  The  people  of  a  story  must  be  made 

any  phase  of  their  spiritual  natures  not  material  to  the  story. 
That  is  to  say,  the  writer  of  a  story,  in  order  to  give  it  the 
seeming  of  life,  should  make  every  effort  and  employ  all  means 
to  invest  each  character  with  a  definite  physical  presence  or 
illusion  of  actuality,  but  he  should  not  try  to  displace  the  inner 
nature  of  each  person  in  like  detail. 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER         143 

to  appear  to  be  real  men  and  women,  if  the  fiction  is  to 
have  its  necessary  verisimilitude  and  consequent  effect, 
and  mannered  speech  will  do  much  to  invest  the 
speakers  with  reality. 

The  process  must  not  be  carried  beyond  the  bounds 
of  naturalness.  A  mannerism  of  speech  may  be  too 
pronounced,  in  that  it  tends  to  arrest  a  reader's  atten- 
tion and  distract  it  from  the  flow  of  the  story.  Un- 
necessarily distorted  spelling,  for  instance,  employed 
in  an  attempt  to  be  too  strictly  phonetic,  will  call  at- 
tention to  itself  rather  than  individualize  the  speaker, 
that  is,  it  will  destroy  the  illusion  of  the  story.  "Yuh" 
for  "you"  is  in  instance.  We  all  "yuh"  more  or  less,  1 
think,  and  for  the  writer  of  a  story  to  insist  thus 
pedantically  on  strict  phonetic  accuracy  tends  to  make 
the  whole  fiction  labored  and  unnatural.  The  whole 
trick  is  to  suggest  any  particular  distortion,  and  yet  to 
have  the  words  as  intelligible  for  a  reader  as  if  the 
spelling  were  normal. 

Mispronunciation,  of  course,  is  not  the  only  man- 
nerism of  speech  that  may  be  availed  of.  In  fact,  the 
tendency  is  to  abuse  it.  An  open  ear  toward  the 
casual  talk  he  hears  will  give  the  writer  many  useful 
hints,  and  so  will  reading  the  work  of  others. 

The  speech  of  class  and  class  varies,  as  does  the 
speech  of  man  and  man.  A  lawyer  in  a  story  should  be 
distinguishable  from  a  sailor  by  the  very  content  of  his 
vocabulary.  So  should  a  doctor  from  an  engineer  or  a 
brakeman,  or  a  musician  from  an  artist.  But  it  must 
all  be  done  naturally.  The  writer  cannot  drag  in  by 
the  ears  technical  terms  of  any  profession  solely  that  a 
reader  may  be  informed  indirectly  of  the  speaker's 
profession.  But  a  doctor  or  lawyer,  for  instance,  will 
generally  be  in  a  story  because  it  requires  the 
presence  of  a  lawyer  or  doctor,  and  therefore  the 
story  will  offer  opportunity  for  him  to  reveal  his  place 


144          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

in  society  by  his  speech.  Incidentally  it  may  be  noted 
that  this  matter  emphasizes  the  necessity  that  the 
writer  of  fiction  be  observant  in  life  and  omnivorous  in 
reading.  He  should  know  the  manner  of  speech  of  any 
considerable  class  of  men.  It  is  true,  of  course,  that 
no  two  lawyers  talk  precisely  alike,  but  it  is  also  true 
that  it  is  possible  to  suggest  a  lawyer  speaking  by  a 
proper  choice  of  words,  and  that  is  the  thing  to  do, 
naturally  and  unobtrusively.  If  the  speech  of  a  charac- 
ter is  individualized  in  some  manner,  and  if,  in  addition, 
a  reader  can  gather  his  business  or  profession  from  his 
words,  he  will  gain  much  in  reality  and  definition. 

The  content  of  the  talk  of  the  characters  of  a 
story,  then,  should  reveal  their  inner  natures,  and 
their  idiosyncrasies  of  utterance  and  word-choice 
should  be  devised  and  set  down  to  intensify  the  im- 
pression of  their  individuality  initiated  by  the  writer's 
strictly  descriptive  touches.  Characterization  is  a 
double  process,  and  neither  aspect  of  it  should  be  ne- 
glected, whether  the  writer  is  narrating,  describing,  or 
transcribing  speech. 

CHARACTERIZATION  BY  STATEMENT 

So  far  as  characterization  by  direct  statement  is  a 
matter  of  individualizing  the  persons  of  a  story  as  mere 
physical  objects,  apart  from  their  inner  natures,  it  has 
been  discussed  in  stating  the  technique  of  the  descrip- 
tion of  persons.  It  was  there  stated  that  the  writer's 
endeavor  should  be  to  catch  and  fix  in  words  the  most 
salient  attribute  of  the  character.  And  usually  it  will 
be  the  case  that  a  persons  most  striking  physical 
attribute  will  have  relation  to  some  fact  of  his 
spirit,  as  in  Stevenson's  description  Villon's  sensual 
face  hints  of  his  sensual  soul.  The  fact  serves  to 
make  more  obvious  the  truth  that  characterization  is  a 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER         145 

double  process  of  individualizing  superficially  and  of 
levealing  the  person's  nature,  and  Stevenson's  descrip- 
tion of  the  medieval  French  poet  is  an  instance  of 
how  the  writer  of  fiction  may  attain  both  ends  in  a 
single  phrase,  and  avoid  the  suggestion  of  artificiality 
in  directly  stating  that  a  character  is  good  or  bad  or 
brave  or  cowardly,  as  the  case  may  be.  Instead  of 
stating  that  Villon  was  sensual  and  cruel,  Stevenson 
states  that  the  wolf  and  pig  struggled  in  his  face.  A 
reader  sees  the  man's  face  and  comprehends  his  nature, 
and  comprehends  the  spiritual  fact  the  more  thorough- 
ly because  reaching  it  inferentially  from  a  mere  picture. 
The  point  is  worth  noting. 

However,  the  writer  of  fiction  frequently  must 
state  his  characters'  moral  attributes  directly.  Not  all 
conceivable  persons  wear  their  souls  in  their  faces;  if 
some  ruddy,  bluff  old  gentleman  is  a  villain  at  heart, 
the  writer  can  only  say  so,  unless  he  is  willing  to 
depend  wholly  on  the  revelation  of  spirit  worked  by 
the  character's  deeds.  And  sometimes  such  a  revela- 
tion comes  too  near  the  end  for  the  other  purposes  of 
the  story.  Much  of  the  interest  or  suspense  of  a  tale 
may  depend  upon  the  reader  having  knowledge  of  the 
natures  of  the  people  who  struggle  with  one  another 
singly  or  in  groups.  Or  direct  statement  as  to  a  char- 
acter's nature  may  be  necessary  to  emphasize  the 
significance  of  his  acts.  Stevenson's  "The  Ebb  Tide"  is 
an  example.  The  book  is  concerned  with  the  unavailing 
struggle  of  a  weak  man  to  be  other  than  weak,  and  the 
author  prefaces  the  course  of  events  with  a  thumbnail 
biography  of  the  weakling  that  invests  the  progress 
of  the  story  with  something  of  the  inevitability  of  fate. 
The  method  is  a  favorite  one  of  Stevenson's,  and  is 
employed  in  most  of  his  longer  work.  Each  brief 
sketch  is  directed  to  bring  out  the  character's  trait  or 
traits  of  significance  in  the  story,  and  the  whole  fiction 

10 


146          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

gains  point  thereby.  Turgenieff  composed  a  biography 
of  each  of  his  characters  to  deepen  and  clarify  his  own 
realization  of  them,  and  incorporation  in  a  story  of  a 
swift  and  significant  sketch  of  a  character's  previous 
life  likewise  may  serve  to  deepen  and  clarify  a  reader's 
realization  of  the  person. 

Stating  directly  that  any  person  is  good  or  bad  or 
brave  or  avaricious  may  give  a  reader  a  key  to  his  acts, 
lending  them  point,  but  direct  statement  is  the  most 
infirm  mode  of  characterization.  Any  mere  statement 
is  less  impressive  and  less  compelling  than  a  demonstra- 
tion. And  direct  statement  of  a  character's  nature 
must  be  reinforced  and  proved  by  his  words  and  deeds. 
It  is  difficult  enough  at  best  to  invest  a  fictitious  per- 
son with  reality,  and  the  writer  can  afford  to  neglect 
no  device. 

As  in  fulfilling  all  other  necessities  of  his  story, 
in  characterizing  by  direct  statement  the  writer  must 
be  easy  and  natural.  The  requirement  is  somewhat 
indefinite,  as  stated,  but  real.  Statement  should  not  be 
too  bald ;  a  little  subtlety  will  be  profitable  to  employ. 
To  state  that  a  character  is  bad,  simply,  is  too  child- 
like, unless  the  story  is  told  from  the  viewpoint  of  a 
child.  The  matter  of  viewpoint  must  always  be  con- 
sidered in  characterizing  by  direct  statement,  for  obvi- 
ous reasons.  If  the  writer  takes  the  position  of  an 
impersonal  observer,  to  whom  the  souls  of  all  charac- 
ters are  open,  he  can  write  pretty  much  as  he  wills. 
If  he  writes  from  the  viewpoint  of  a  single  character, 
whether  in  the  first  or  third  person,  he  cannot  assume 
too  inclusive  knowledge  of  the  souls  of  the  others.  The 
matter  has  been  discussed  elsewhere.* 


*It  will  be  instructive  to  realize  why  direct  statement  of  a 
character's  outstanding  moral  quality  is  less  effective  than  skill- 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER  147 

CHARACTERIZATION  BY  ACTION 
The  value  of  action  as  a  means  to  give  a  reader 
realization  of  the  physical  appearance  of  a  character  is 
somewhat  slight.  To  show  the  person  as  performing 
a  feat  of  strength  will  suggest  that  he  is  a  powerful 
man,  but  physical  prowess  is  not  a  visually  definite 
quality.  Powerful  men  are  not  always  even  large  men. 
Action  is  greatly  useful  to  reveal  the  soul,  but  not  very 
useful  to  reveal  appearance. 

However,  between  narrative  and  strict  descriptive 
writing  a  borderland  exists.  A  person  may  be  de- 
scribed as  having  a  sneaking  look.  That  is  strict 
description.  But  the  writer  also  may  relate  how  the 
person  slunk  down  an  alley  to  avoid  meeting  someone 
he  dared  not  face.  The  descriptive  value  of  the  word 
'slunk"  as  to  the  person  will  be  as  great  as  the  narra- 
tive value  of  the  word  to  the  event.  It  is  merely  the 
matter  of  vivid  and  effective  narration  approached 
from  a  new  angle.  Narration  consists  in  stating  what 
happened  to  certain  persons  and  what  they  did,  and 
a  descriptive  quality,  both  as  to  the  persons  and  the 
events,  should  permeate  it.  Visualization  of  the  story 
in  imagination  will  show  the  way. 

ful  description  of  his  person,  though  both  the  statement  and  the 
description  are  fundamentally  descriptive  writing.  One  may 
say  that  a  moral  attribute  cannot  be  described,  can  merely  be 
stated,  but  that  is  a  statement  of  the  condition  rather  than  of 
the  cause.  The  root  of  the  matter  is  that  the  appearance  of  a 
person  is  the  resultant  of  a  combination  of  details;  by  stating 
the  significant  details  in  proper  relation  the  writer  can  force  a 
reader  to  perceive  for  himself  the  totality  of  the  person's  ap- 
pearance. But  a  quality  of  soul  is  unified  and  undetailed.  It  is 
ineffective  to  say  that  a  person  is  cruel  simply  for  the  same 
reason  that  it  is  ineffective  to  say  that  he  is  handsome.  It  follows 
that  any  breaking  up  of  a  quality  of  soul  into  its  elements,  if 
possible,  will  increase  the  effectiveness  of  the  statement.  Thus, 
cruelty  may  result  from  essential  virility  of  soul  in  combination 
with  insensitiveness,  and  so  forth. 


148          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

If  action  is  the  least  effective  way  to  hint  of  the 
characters'  appearance,  it  is  by  far  the  most  effective 
way  to  display  their  natures.  The  whole  purpose  of 
the  story  of  character  is  to  display  the  fact  and  demon- 
strate the  consequences  of  the  possession  of  certain 
traits  by  a  group  of  persons  or  even  by  one  person. 
And  in  any  real  story,  that  is,  in  any  fiction  built  about 
a  plot,  the  traits  of  a  character  and  the  events  will 
be  mutually  influential.  Either  the  characters  will  be 
devised  to  develop  the  events,  or  the  events  will  be 
devised  to  develop  the  characters.  The  moral  quality 
of  an  act  is  a  sure  index  to  the  moral  quality  of  the 
person  who  commits  it.  A  story  must  reveal  character 
simply  because  it  consists  of  a  series  of  events  involv- 
ing and  produced  by  men  and  women.  The  writer's 
endeavor  is  not  merely  to  narrate  the  events  for  their 
own  sake,  but  also  to  realize  just  what  sort  of  people 
must  inevitably  have  acted  so  under  the  given  condi- 
tions, and  to  employ  his  subsidiary  means  of  character- 
ization so  as  to  bring  out  no  trait  unnecessary  to  the 
events. 

There  is  one  exception  to  the  rule  that  the  writer 
should  endeavor  to  bring  out  only  the  traits  of  charac- 
ter strictly  material  to  the  events.  Of  course,  the 
primary  necessity  in  fiction  writing  is  to  develop  the 
whole  story  naturally.  But  a  story  is  for  its  readers. 
To  give  some  stories  full  effect  upon  a  reader  it  is 
necessary  to  invest  one  or  more  of  the  characters  with 
a  trait  or  traits  not  strictly  necessary  to  the  develop- 
ment of  the  story.  Usually  the  aim  will  be  to  awaken 
the  reader's  sympathy  that  he  may  follow  the  for- 
tunes of  the  person  or  persons  with  greater  interest 
than  the  bare  content  of  the  story  would  evoke.  For 
instance,  if  a  story  shows  a  character  whose  unlovely 
traits  lead  him  into  difficulties,  investing  him  also  with 
some  pleasing  attribute  will  deepen  a  reader's  interest 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER         149 

in  his  fate  by  arousing  active  pity  for  him.  I  have 
touched  upon  this  matter  before  and  from  another 
angle  in  discussing  the  necessity  that  the  writer  select 
a  mode  of  narration  which  will  permit  him  to  express 
his  sympathy  for  a  character  that  he  may  evoke  a 
reader's.  Stevenson's  treatment  of  Herrick  in  "The 
Ebb-Tide"  was  instanced,  and  one  who  has  read  the 
book  will  recall  that  its  author  gave  Herrick  attributes 
of  mind  and  soul  more  pleasing  than  inefficiency  and 
weakness,  though  weakness  was  the  single  quality 
demanded  in  Herrick  to  render  inevitable  the  course  of 
events.* 

No  specific  technique  of  characterization  by  action 
can  be  stated ;  it  is  a  matter  of  conceiving  and  elaborat- 
ing the  whole  story  justly.  The  fact  for  the  writer  is 
that  a  person's  acts  reveal  his  inner  nature,  and  the 
necessity  that  the  writer  must  meet  is  to  devise  events 
and  characters  having  a  natural  and  plausible  relation. 
Jf  this  is  done,  the  essential  substance  of  the  story 
will  be  sound,  at  least,  so  far  as  character  is  concerned. 
Then  the  writer  must  meet  the  other  necessity  to  make 
his  people  appear  to  be  real  men  and  women  apart 
from  any  distinction  of  their  inner  natures.  If  both 
necessities  are  met,  a  reader  will  be  faced  by  real 
people  doing  things  for  real  and  adequate  reasons, 
which  is  a  great  part  of  the  art  of  fiction. 

All  the  acts  of  a  person's  life,  great  and  small, 
would  reveal  his  whole  nature.  But  a  story  usually 
does  not  take  a  person  from  birth  to  death,  and,  if  it 
does,  it  is  concerned  with  a  phase  of  the  life  rather 
than  with  the  whole  life.  The  art  of  fiction  is  highly 

*To  accomplish  this  subordinate  and  strictly  unnecessary 
characterization  the  writer  must  employ  the  same  three  means 
of  speech,  direct  statement,  and  action.  But  the  action  will  con- 
stitute only  a  secondary  event  or  events  in  the  story,  and  must 
not  bulk  too  large  at  the  expense  of  the  primary  events. 


150          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

selective,  and  necessarily  so.  Not  only  must  the  writer 
of  fiction  produce  his  effects  within  a  limited  space, 
but  he  must  consciously  eliminate  here  and  suppress 
there  in  order  to  make  apparent  the  real  significance 
of  his  picture  of  life.  The  significance  of  one  man's 
life  may  lie  in  his  constant  loyalty  to  and  sacrifice  for 
his  family;  the  significance  of  another's  in  his  complete 
disregard  of  his  obligations  as  a  husband  and  father. 
In  either  case,  the  writer  who  sees  material  for  a  short 
story  or  novel  in  such  a  life  must  select  for  reproduc- 
tion chiefly  those  acts  of  the  character  which  are 
significant  as  to  the  trait  sought  to  be  brought  out, 
otherwise  the  story  will  be  without  point  and  meaning. 
Viewed  superficially,  a  story  is  a  mere  string  of  events 
that  happened  to  happen,  a  thing  easy  to  write  without 
forethought  and  calculation.  But  the  truth  is  that  a 
story  is  a  chain  of  events  at  least  influenced  and  some- 
times even  determined  by  character.  If  the  influence 
of  character  in  the  fiction  is  predominant,  it  cannot  be 
written  justly  without  careful  weighing  and  selection 
of  the  incidents  that  suggest  themselves  to  the  writer. 
Having  conceived  a  plot  and  devised  characters  to 
enact  it,  or  having  conceived  characters  and  devised  a 
plot  to  develop  them,  the  writer  should  outline  the  main 
course  of  the  story,  mentally  or  on  paper.  He  then 
should  realize  definitely  and  precisely  what  traits  of 
character  are  primarily  significant  in  the  story,  and 
should  prepare  to  develop  them  so  as  to  reinforce  the 
effect  of  his  people's  acts  upon  a  reader  by  character- 
istic dialogue  and  description  and  direct  statement. 
The  writer  should  consider  next  whether  a  due  regard 
for  a  reader's  interest  requires  that  he  invest  his  peo- 
ple with  attributes  not  strictly  necessary  to  the  main 
events  of  the  story,  and  therefore  not  to  be  revealed 
by  each  person's  part  in  such  events.  Finally,  the 
writer  should  realize  that  he  must  give  each  person  a 


PORTRAYAL  OF  CHARACTER         151 

definite  physical  presence  and  illusion  of  actuality,  and 
should  prepare  to  do  so  by  visualizing  them  in  imagina- 
tion. If  all  this  is  done  at  all,  it  is  certain  that  the 
story  will  be  a  better  piece  of  work  than  if  the  writer 
set  to  work  with  only  a  vague  prevision  of  the  course 
of  events  as  his  material.  And  if  it  is  done  justly,  and 
the  writer  has  adequate  executive  powers,  the  story 
will  be  worth  while,  at  least  in  relation  to  character. 


CHAPTER  XI 
ATMOSPHERE 

Definition — General  Atmospheric  Value  of  Fiction — Tone  of 
Story — Preparation  of  Reader  for  Climax — Examples — The 
Story  of  Atmosphere — Short  Story — Setting — Slight  Dra- 
matic Value  of  Type. 

Atmosphere — as  the  term  is  used  by  the  writer  of 
fiction — is  a  most  indefinite  word;  it  may  be  well  to 
preface  discussion  of  what  it  stands  for  by  a  definition. 
And  in  defining  it  is  often  conducive  to  clearness  to 
state  what  a  thing  is  not  before  stating  what  it  is. 

In  the  first  place,  atmosphere  is  not  setting,  al- 
though the  setting  of  a  story  may  aid  in  producing  its 
atmosphere.  The  frozen  wastes  of  a  sub-arctic  region 
or  the  man-made  squalor  of  a  slum  may  operate  power- 
fully to  produce  on  a  reader  of  a  story  placed  therein 
an  impression  of  desolation  or  of  misery,  but  that  im- 
pression will  derive  from  something  other  than  the 
setting,  and  will  merely  be  reinforced  thereby.  If  a 
slum  story  is  essentially  cheerful  and  light-hearted  in 
content,  its  reader  will  not  be  oppressed  by  the  setting, 
however  truthfully  touched  in,  unless  the  writer  de- 
liberately makes  his  people  seem  miraculous  in  point 
of  their  capacity  to  avoid  the  contagion  of  their  sur- 
roundings. The  young  girl  in  "The  Dawn  of  a  To- 
Morrow"  is  an  instance  of  what  is  meant  by  the  quali- 
fication. 

Atmosphere  is  not  setting,  nor  is  it  anything  at  all 

152 


ATMOSPHERE  153 

that  is  in  a  story.  It  is  not  the  quality  of  the  environ- 
ment; it  is  not  the  general  quality  of  the  people  or  their 
acts ;  it  is  not  the  quality  of  the  theme  or  plot.  What 
is  it  ?  It  is  the  general  emotional  impression  made  on 
a  reader  by  the  whole  story.  It  is  nothing  that  is  in 
a  story;  it  is  the  emotional  effect  produced  by  the 
story  on  a  reader.  Just  as  a  scene,  an  event,  or  a  per- 
son, unless  very  commonplace,  will  have  some  emo- 
tional effect  on  an  observer,  any  story  that  is  told  so 
as  to  create  the  illusion  of  reality  will  have  some 
emotional  effect  on  a  reader.  As  Stevenson  said  to 
Balf our :  "I'll  give  you  an  example — The  Merry  Men/ 
There  I  began  with  the  feeling  of  one  of  those  islands 
on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  and  I  gradually  de- 
veloped the  story  to  express  the  sentiment  with  which 
the  coast  affected  me." 

A  distinction  should  be  noted  here.  "The  Merry 
Men"  is  a  strict  story  of  atmosphere ;  its  author,  as  he 
implicitly  states,  started  with  an  emotional  effect,  or 
"sentiment,"  and  devised  only  such  persons  and  action 
as  would  deepen  on  a  reader  the  emotional  impression 
initiated  in  this  case  by  the  setting.  But,  as  has  been 
stated,  any  story  told  so  as  to  create  the  illusion  of 
reality  will  have  some  totality  of  emotional  effect  on  a 
reader,  apart  from  its  specific  emotional  effects  in 
various  parts,  unless  the  fiction  is  very  commonplace. 
That  is  to  say,  the  strict  story  of  atmosphere,  which 
has  been  touched  on  briefly  in  discussing  story-types, 
subordinates  its  action  and  its  people  to  its  totality  of 
emontional  effect;  in  the  normal  story,  whether  it 
stresses  personality  or  event,  atmosphere,  or  totality  of 
emotional  effect  on  a  reader,  is  a  subordinate  considera- 
tion, resulting  from  the  necessity  that  an  observer  of 
persons  and  events  be  affected  thereby  in  some  general 
way.  At  least  it  is  true  that  the  writer  of  a  story  of 
complication  of  incident  or  of  character  cannot  permit 


154          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

any  consideration  of  atmosphere  to  interfere  with  the 
events  in  the  first  case  or  the  persons  in  the  other. 
Whatever  totality  of  emotional  effect  may  reside  in  his 
work  will  be  inherent  in  the  conception,  as  it  would  be 
inherent  in  such  a  spectacle  for  an  observer,  if  the 
story  should  happen  in  actuality. 

The  sensible — because  the  most  profitable — way 
for  the  writer  of  fiction  to  fit  the  matter  of  atmos- 
phere into  his  general  artistic  philosophy  is  to  disre- 
gard it  entirely,  except  where  it  constitutes  a  primary 
consideration,  that  is,  except  in  relation  to  the  strict 
story  of  atmosphere.  The  reason  for  this  cavalier 
treatment  of  the  matter  has  been  brought  out.  If  any 
story  is  told  so  as  to  create  the  illusion  of  reality, 
some  general  emotional  effect  will  be  produced  on  its 
reader,  will  be  inherent  in  the  conception,  as  it  would 
be  inherent  in  the  spectacle,  if  actual.  It  all  comes 
down  to  this:  by  telling  his  story  justly  as  a  course  of 
events  involving  real  people  in  a  definite  environment, 
the  writer  will  produce  on  a  reader  whatever  totality  of 
emotional  effect  is  inherent  in  the  conception.  If  there 
is  no  totality  of  emotional  effect  inherent  therein  the 
writer  cannot  produce  it  except  by  changing  the  whole 
conception  and  writing  a  different  story.  In  the  case  of 
the  strict  story  of  atmosphere  the  writer's  attitude  is 
different.  He  sets  out,  not  with  a  story,  but  with  an 
emotional  effect,  and  devises  people  and  events  and 
setting  to  produce  it. 

The  point  can  be  made  clearer  by  more  specific 
discussion.  Assume  that  a  writer  has  conceived  a 
story  with  a  definite  plot,  involving  definite  people,  set 
in  a  New  England  village.  Anybody  who  knows  New 
England  or  has  read  Alice  Brown  or  Mary  E.  Wilkins 
Freeman  can  testify  that  such  a  story,  justly  told,  will 
have  a  definite  and  peculiar  atmospheric  value.  But 
its  atmosphere,  its  totality  of  emotional  effect  on  a 


ATMOSPHERE  155 

reader  will  be  inherent  in  its  setting  and  people,  per- 
haps even  in  its  events.  The  story  itself  will  deter- 
mine its  atmosphere,  which  can  be  only  the  peculiar 
impression  that  a  New  England  village,  its  people  and 
their  lives,  produce  on  an  observer.  By  choosing  to 
write  such  a  story,  or  by  choosing  to  write  any  definite 
story,  a  writer  debars  himself  from  creating  any  at- 
mosphere not  involved  in  the  story  selected  for  writing. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  a  writer  desires  to  put  together 
a  story  of  atmosphere,  he  starts  with  an  emotional 
effect  as  the  basic  conception,  and  then  casts  about  for 
a  setting,  people,  and  incidents  that  will  produce  such 
emotional  effect.  It  all  depends  upon  what  the  writer 
starts  with.  If  he  starts  with  an  emotional  effect,  he 
may  narrate  any  course  of  events,  and  draw  any  sort 
of  people,  and  place  the  tale  in  any  sort  of  setting, 
provided  only  that  events,  people,  and  setting  be  such 
as  to  produce  the  desired  atmosphere  or  effect.  But  if 
the  writer  starts  with  a  definite  story,  the  only  atmos- 
phere he  can  create  thereby  is  the  atmosphere  inherent 
in  the  conception.* 

Though  it  is  true  that  a  writer  may  and  should 
disregard  the  matter  of  atmosphere  in  writing  a  story 
which  he  has  conceived  as  a  definite  course  of  events 
involving  definite  people,  since  any  atmospheric  possi- 
bilities of  the  fiction  will  be  inherent  in  the  conception 
and  will  be  realized  by  telling  it  justly  as  to  people, 

*0f  course,  the  initial  conception  of  a  story  of  atmosphere 
may  limit  the  writer's  power  to  manipulate  his  material.  Thus., 
when  Stevenson  pitched  upon  the  emotional  effect  of  the  west 
coast  of  Scotland  as  that  to  be  produced  by  "The  Merry  Men," 
he  debarred  himself  from  placing  his  story  in  any  other  setting, 
though  he  could  pick  and  choose  freely  among  possible  events 
and  people.  A  general  emotional  effect,  as  of  beauty,  is  some- 
what indefinite,  and  may  be  produced  alike  by  stories  differing 
widely  in  their  three  elements  of  setting,  people  and  events. 


156  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF   FICTION   WRITING 

events,  and  setting,  nevertheless  a  qualification  must 
be  stated.  No  story  is  conceived  as  definitely  as  it  is 
written;  the  writer  first  grasps  the  plot  or  main  situa- 
tion, perhaps  also  the  characters,  and  then  expands  the 
outline  into  a  congruous  presentation  of  a  phase  of  life 
by  filling  in  details  as  to  environment,  people,  and 
events.  This  filling-in  process  may  and  should  be  per- 
formed partly  at  least  before  writing,  but  even  if  the 
writer  postpones  it  until  he  is  wrestling  with  the 
problem  of  execution,  he  must  remember  one  thing. 
Any  story  has  a  general  tone,  largely  determined  by  its 
climax  or  main  situation.  This  tone  or  key  of  a  story 
is  not  its  atmosphere  strictly,  perhaps,  but  the  dividing 
line  between  the  two  matters  is  very  faint.  The  atmos- 
phere of  a  story  is  its  general  emotional  effect  upon  a 
reader,  and  its  tone  is  very  nearly  the  same  thing,  being 
the  result  of  its  writer's  having  justly  performed  his 
selective  task  by  transcribing  only  such  matters  as 
harmonize  with  the  main  situation,  tragic  or  comic. 
And  a  writer  must  regard  the  matter  of  the  tone  of  a 
story  in  developing  and  writing  it,  if  it  is  to  have  the 
significant  simplicity  and  unity  which  alone  can  give 
the  fiction  maximum  power  and  effect. 

The  practical  problem  can  be  stated  most  simply 
thus:  a  reader's  intelligence  and  sensibilities  must  be 
prepared  for  the  crisis,  climax,  or  main  situation  by 
incorporating  in  the  story  only  such  matters  of  envi- 
ronment, personality,  or  event  as  harmonize  with  the 
emotional  character  of  the  main  situation.  The  neces- 
sity is  most  stringent,  of  course,  in  the  case  of  the  short 
story,  but  it  is  a  consideration  to  be  borne  in  mind  in 
writing  any  type  of  fiction.  It  is  merely  another  aspect 
of  the  general  question  of  preparation,  which  has  been 
touched  upon  before.  The  situations  of  a  story  must  be 
prepared  in  a  mechanical  sense,  that  is,  the  writer  must 
prepare  to  place  his  people  where  each  situation  de- 
mands that  they  be  placed ;  the  people  themselves  must 


ATMOSPHERE  157 

be  developed  and  individualized,  that  the  situations  may 
have  full  dramatic  value ;  and  the  mind  and  heart  of  a 
reader  of  the  story  must  be  prepared  for  the  climax, 
which  is  the  whole  story  in  little. 

If  the  main  situation  of  any  story  is  essentially 
tragic,  it  will  never  do  not  to  hint  the  fact  until  the 
climax  is  reached,  when  a  reader  will  be  overwhelmed, 
rather  than  upborne  and  stimulated,  by  the  torrent  of 
battle,  murder,  or  sudden  death.  The  opening  scene  of 
"Macbeth"  presages  the  lurid  character  of  the  whole 
play,  and  serves  to  key  reader  or  spectator  for  murder. 
Likewise,  in  the  case  of  a  story  essentially  light  and 
happy  in  content,  the  purpose  of  the  writer  is  to  de- 
velop and  present  one  of  life's"  many  attractive  phases, 
and  that  purpose  will  be  defeated  or  at  least  hampered 
if  woebegone  people  and  unpleasant  situations  are  given 
place  in  the  fiction. 

Considerations  of  contrast  may  lead  the  writer  to 
incorporate  in  his  story  matter  out  of  keeping  with  its 
general  tone  and  main  situation,  but  the  effort  is  really 
to  emphasize  the  general  tone  by  striking  a  few  dis- 
cordant notes.  Contrast  is  too  delicate  a  matter  to  be 
discussed  with  any  profit;  whether  or  not  the  device 
shall  be  employed  in  any  story  is  a  problem  that  only 
the  artistic  sense  of  the  writer  of  the  particular  story 
can  answer. 

It  is  very  easy  to  say  that  a  story  should  be  told 
so  as  to  prepare  a  reader  for  the  climax,  that  he  may 
accept  it,  yet,  in  a  sense,  the  thing  can  be  achieved  only 
by  adequate  practice  of  the  whole  art  of  fiction.  The 
general  necessity  is  to  make  the  whole  course  of  events 
seem  real  and  actual;  the  more  specific  necessity  is  to 
give  a  reader  a  definite  clue  to  the  nature  of  the  story, 
that  he  may  not  be  shocked  into  disbelief  by  the  climax. 
This  must  be  done  unobtrusively,  as  every  other  tech- 
nical device  must  be  employed,  under  penalty  of  failing 
in  its  office. 


158          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

A  quotation  showing  effective  employment. of  the 
device  will  not  be  useless.  Stevenson's  short  story 
"Thrawn  Janet"  leads  up  to  an  encounter  with  the 
devil,  and  the  author  loses  no  time  in  preparing  a 
reader  for  the  entrance  of  his  satanic  majesty.  The 
story  begins  thus: 

"The  Reverend  Murdoch  Soulis  was  long  minister 
of  the  moorland  parish  of  Balweary,  in  the  vale  of 
Dule.  A  severe,  bleak-faced  old  man,  dreadful  to  his 
hearers,  he  dwelt  in  the  last  years  of  his  life,  without 
relative  or  servant  or  any  human  company,  in  the  small 
and  lonely  manse  under  the  Hanging  Shaw.  In  spite 
of  the  iron  composure  of  his  features,  his  eye  was  wild, 
scared,  and  uncertain;  and  when  he  dwelt,  in  private 
admonitions,  on  the  future  of  the  impenitent,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  eye  pierced  through  the  storms  of  time  to  the 
terrors  of  eternity.  Many  young  persons,  coming  to 
prepare  themselves  against  the  season  of  the  Holy 
Communion,  were  dreadfully  affected  by  his  talk.  He 
had  a  sermon  on  1st  Peter,  v.  and  8th,  The  devil  as  a 
roaring  lion/  on  the  Sunday  after  every  seventeenth  of 
August,  and  he  was  accustomed  to  surpass  himself 
upon  that  text  both  by  the  appalling  nature  of  the 
matter  and  the  terror  of  his  bearing  in  the  pulpit.  The 
children  were  frightened  into  fits,  and  the  old  looked 
more  than  usually  oracular,  and  were,  all  that  day, 
full  of  those  hints  that  Hamlet  deprecated.  The 
manse  itself,  where  it  stood  by  the  water  of  Dule 
among  some  thick  trees,  with  the  Shaw  overhanging 
it  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  many  cold,  moorish 
hill-tops  rising  towards  the  sky,  had  begun,  at  a  very 
early  period  of  Mr.  Soulis'  ministry,  to  be  avoided  in 
the  dusk  hours  by  all  who  valued  themselves  upon  their 
prudence ;  and  guidmen  sitting  at  the  clachan  alehouse 
shook  their  heads  together  at  the  thought  of  passing 
late  by  tthat  uncanny  neighborhood." 


ATMOSPHERE  159 

Here  Stevenson  loses  no  time  in  keying  his  reader 
to  the  general  pitch  of  the  story.  It  is  a  task  that 
the  writer  of  any  story  must  undertake.  The  general 
nature  of  the  tale  should  be  suggested  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, and  the  story  should  not  be  allowed  to  falsify  it's 
introductory  hints,  but  should  reaffirm  them  con- 
stantly, until  all  the  divergent  strands  of  the  fiction  are 
knotted  together  in  the  climax,  which  will  need  no 
interpretation.  Take  another  instance  from  Stevenson, 
the  beginning  of  "Markheim,"  where  Markheim  mur- 
ders the  dealer  in  curios. 

"  'Yes,'  said  the  dealer,  'our  windfalls  are  of  vari- 
ous kinds.  Some  customers  are  ignorant,  and  then  I 
touch  a  dividend  of  my  superior  knowledge.  Some  are 
dishonest/  and  here  he  held  up  the  candle,  so  that  the 
light  fell  strongly  on  his  visitor,  'and  in  that  case/  he 
continued,  'I  profit  by  my  virtue/ 

"Markheim  had  but  just  entered  from  the  daylight 
streets,  and  his  eyes  had  not  grown  familiar  with  the 
mingled  shine  and  darkness  of  the  shop.  At  these 
pointed  words,  and  before  the  near  presence  of  the 
flame,  he  blinked  painfully  and  looked  aside." 

A  little  farther  on : 

"The  dealer  once  more  chuckled ;  and  then,  chang- 
ing to  his  usual  business  voice,  though  still  with  a  note 
of  irony,  'You  can  give,  as  usual,  a  clear  account  of 
how  you  came  into  the  possession  of  the  object?'  he 
continued.  'Still  your  uncle's  cabinet?  A  remarkable 
collector,  sir!' 

"And  the  little  pale,  round-shouldered  dealer  stood 
almost  on  tiptoe,  looking  over  the  top  of  his  gold 
spectacles,  and  nodding  his  head  with  every  mark  of 
disbelief.  Markheim  returned  his  gaze  with  one  of 
infinite  pity,  and  a  touch  of  horror." 

Note  how  strongly  and  withal  how  naturally  the 
whole  of  this,  and  particularly  the  last  sentence,  sug- 


160          THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

gests  that  Markheim  has  come  into  the  shop  to  do 
murder.  The  story  is  keyed  to  tragedy  at  once,  its 
reader  with  it.  His  mind  is  prepared  in  advance,  that 
the  significant  event,  when  it  is  related,  may  be  ac- 
cepted without  question. 

As  stated,  this  matter  of  keying  the  story  and  its 
reader  to  the  pitch  of  the  main  situation  or  climax  is 
not  precisely  the  matter  of  atmosphere,  but  it  has  close 
affiliations  therewith.  It  is  even  more  important  to  the 
writer  of  fiction.  Any  atmospheric  value  in  a  story  will 
be  brought  out  by  telling  it  justly  as  a  course  of  events 
involving  real  people  in  a  definite  environment,  and 
preparation  of  a  reader  for  the  main  situation  of  a 
story  is  a  part  of  just  and  adequate  narration.  The 
writer's  hints  of  the  character  of  what  is  to  come  must 
be  unforced  and  natural,  but  they  must  be  effective. 

It  is  obvious,  of  course,  that  the  more  tense  or 
strange  the  main  situation  of  a  story,  the  greater  the 
necessity  that  a  reader  be  prepared  for  it.  If  the  main 
situation  consists  in  commonplace  characters  doing 
some  commonplace  thing,  a  reader  will  accept  the  spec- 
tacle without  artificial  preparation,  but  if  the  main 
situation  is  highly  dramatic,  the  normally  placid  course 
of  a  reader's  thought  and  feeling  must  be  agitated  and 
stimulated  in  advance,  or  he  will  not  rise  with  the 
climax.  In  other  words,  the  fiction  will  not  have  veri- 
similitude emotionally.  A  story  is  both  a  physical 
spectacle  and  an  emotional  progression;  the  author 
must  write  both  for  the  reader's  eye  and  for  his  soul. 
Ii  any  story  touches  emotional  heights,  its  reader  must 
be  stimulated  thereto  by  proper  preparation. 

It  remains  to  consider  the  matter  of  atmosphere, 
a,*  the  term  is  used  with  relation  to  the  strict  story  of 
atmosphere,  which  emphasizes  the  emotional  value  of 
the  whole  for  a  reader  rather  than  the  significance  of 
the  events  or  characters. 


ATMOSPHERE  161 

The  intrinsic  difficulty  to  blend  such  diverse 
matters  as  people,  events,  and  setting  or  environment 
into  an  even  emotional  unity  requires  that  the  strict 
story  of  atmosphere  be  a  short  story.  Even  if  it  is  not 
a  short  story  in  point  of  actual  length,  it  will  be  a 
short  story  in  point  of  structure,  that  is,  it  will  lead 
relatively  few  characters  through  little  diversity  of 
setting  to  a  single  main  situation,  or  perhaps  even  to  no 
main  situation,  in  a  dramatic  sense.  As  noted  in  dis- 
cussing story  types,  the  progression  of  the  particular 
atmosphere  to  the  point  of  highest  intensity  gives  the 
strict  story  of  atmosphere  much  of  its  story-character. 
The  human  element  is  incidental  and  subordinate. 
However,  th,e  task  of  keeping  people,  events,  and  set- 
ting true  to  a  fixed  emotional  tone  is  so  difficult  that 
a  writer  cannot  sustain  the  effort  for  long.  Many 
novels  or  relatively  lengthy  stories  have  high  atmos- 
pheric value ;  Hardy's  Wessex  novels  possess  the  qual- 
ity, as  does  much  of  Joseph  Conrad's  work,  "Almayer's 
Folly,"  for  instance;  but  it  is  generally  true  that  the 
intrinsic  difficulty  of  the  story  of  atmosphere  tends  to 
confine  it  within  brief  limits.  It  is  certainly  true  that 
only  the  skilled  hand  can  compass  the  feat  of  writing 
it  at  all. 

I  have  stated  that  the  setting  of  a  story  is  not  its 
atmosphere,  and  that  is  true.  Nevertheless  the  setting 
is  most  often  what  determines  the  emotional  effect  of 
the  whole.  A  hundred  instances  might  be  cited — "The 
Merry  Men,"  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,"  "Al- 
mayer's Folly,"  "The  Return  of  the  Native."  This  re- 
sults from  the  fact  that  setting  or  environment  is  much 
more  potent  to  produce  a  relatively  definite  emotional 
effect  on  an  observer  than  either  a  person  or  an  event, 
the  two  other  elements  of  a  story.  A  murder  may 
produce  a  very  definite  feeling  of  horror  in  an  observer 
or  reader,  but  the  emotion,  while  definite,  is  not  linked 

11 


162  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

inevitably  to  murder  alone.  Many  other  spectacles  will 
horrify.  Likewise,  a  person  may  produce  a  feeling  of 
disgust  in  an  observer  or  reader,  but  so  will  an  infinite 
number  of  other  persons,  all  radically  different  from 
each  other  and  the  first.  But  the  emotional  effect  of 
the  west  coast  of  Scotland  is  special  and  peculiar  to 
that  setting;  there  is  no  single  word  in  the  language 
characterizing  it.  That  is  why  Stevenson  had  to  write 
"The  Merry  Men"  to  state  it,  just  as  Poe  had  to  write 
"The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher"  to  state  the  specific 
emotional  effect  of  that  particular  house,  and  Hardy 
had  to  write  "The  Return  of  the  Native"  to  state  the 
emotional  value  of  his  Wessex  moors. 

Moreover,  when  the  writer  finds  the  germ  of  his 
story  in  a  person  seen  actually  or  in  imagination,  it.  is 
more  than  likely  that  the  emphasis  of  the  completed 
work  will  be  on  character,  and  when  he  finds  it  in  an 
event  or  situation,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  the  em- 
phasis of  the  completed  work  will  be  on  plot.  But  when 
a  countryside  or  house  or  stretch  of  sea-coast  suggests 
a  story,  it  can  hardly  result  otherwise  than  that  the 
completed  work  will  emphasize  the  emotional  value  of 
the  setting. 

The  setting  of  the  strict  story  of  atmosphere  may 
determine  its  emotional  effect,  but  the  emotional  tend- 
ency of  the  setting  must  not  be  affected  adversely  by 
the  people  or  the  events.  That  is  why  the  setting  is  not 
atmosphere,  though  it  may  determine  the  atmosphere. 
A  gloomy  and  terrific  setting  will  have  small  emotional 
effect  upon  a  reader  if  the  people  and  events  of  the 
story  are  not  such  as  to  deepen  the  impression  initiated 
by  the  setting,  for  the  people  and  events  cannot  be 
emotionally  neutral.  If  they  are  seemingly  real,  that 
is,  if  the  story  is  well  told  apart  from  the  matter  of 
atmosphere,  they  will  make  some  impression  on  a 
reader.  Unless  their  impression  is  of  a  piece  with  that 


ATMOSPHERE  163 

of  the  setting,  the  unity  of  emotional  effect  will  be 
destroyed.  And  if  there  is  no  unity  of  emotional  effect, 
there  is  no  atmosphere,  in  the  strict  sense. 

Confession  is  good  for  the  soul ;  let  me  say  that  if 
there  is  a  technique  of  writing  so  as  to  produce  a  unity 
of  emotional  effect  I  am  unable  to  state  it.  The  matter 
is  exceptionally  delicate,  and  only  the  broadest  sort  of 
abstract  statement  can  be  made.  One  can  state — as 
I  have  stated — that  the  emotional  effect  of  a  story  of 
atmosphere  is  usually  initiated  by  and  dependent  on 
the  setting,  and  that  the  emotional  effect  initiated  by 
the  setting  must  be  reinforced  by  the  writer's  choice 
and  handling  of  people  and  events.  But  that  is  about 
all  that  can  be  said.  A  specific  story  of  atmosphere 
might  be  taken  and  examined  in  detail  with  profit,  if 
space  were  available;  yet  the  devices  employed  by  its 
writer  would  not  completely  exhaust  the  resources  of 
atmospheric  writing,  and  abstract  statement  of  them 
here  will  not  cover  the  whole  technique.  Poe's  tech- 
nique in  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher"  is  not  identi- 
cal with  Stevenson's  in  "The  Merry  Men,"  nor  with 
Conrad's  in  "Almayer's  Folly." 

Fortunately,  the  strict  technique  is  not  of  great 
practical  importance.  Any  story  will  gain  in  power  by 
possession  of  an  atmospheric  quality,  but  that 
quality  will  be  present  if  the  basic  conception  is  not 
trivial  and  feeble,  and  if  the  story  is  told  adequately 
as  to  its  three  elements  of  setting,  personality,  and 
event.  Any  emotional  value  inherent  in  the  thing  will 
then  be  felt  by  a  reader,  as  he  would  feel  the  emotional 
value  of  the  spectacle,  if  real.  Any  story  that  is  lived 
vicariously  by  its  writer  in  the  person  of  the  character 
from  whose  viewpoint  it  is  told,  and  is  written  justly 
as  a  course  of  events  involving  real  people  in  a  definite 
environment,  will  have  all  the  effect  on  a  reader  attain- 
able by  the  particular  conception.  And  as  to  the  strict 


164  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

story  of  atmosphere,  it  will  be  hopeless  for  the  writer 
of  fiction  to  attempt  it  until  he  can  handle  the  less 
artificial  and  less  difficult  forms  with  some  approach  to 
real  facility  and  adequacy. 

One  specific  point  of  the  technique  of  writing  the 
strict  story  of  atmosphere  should  be  noted,  for  it  is 
important.  The  emotional  effect  is  usually  initiated 
and  determined  by  the  setting,  natural  or  artificial,  as 
a  tropical  island  or  a  house.  Characters  and  events  must 
be  subservient  to  the  particular  emotional  value.  It 
results  that  there  can  be  no  real  dramatic  opposition 
of  characters  and  traits  in  the  strict  story  of  atmos- 
phere, for  the  moral  nature  of  an  individual  has  no 
affiliation  with  the  emotional  quality  of  a  countryside  or 
any  other  setting.  Development  of  strict  traits  of 
character,  which  are  essential  to  drama,  will  not  serve 
to  deepen  for  a  reader  the  emotional  suggestion  of  a 
setting.  The  writer  of  the  strict  story  of  atmosphere 
must  seek  to  invest  his  people  with  such  traits  as  will 
reinforce  the  emotional  suggestion  of  the  setting,  and 
these  traits  cannot  be  strictly  of  character.  Rather 
they  will  be  attributes  of  appearance,  action,  mind,  and 
soul.  Insanity  is  an  instance  of  such  an  attribute  of 
mind,  not  strictly  of  character.  The  point  is  difficult  to 
state  abstractly,  as  is  the  whole  of  the  technique  of 
atmosphere,  but  a  reading  of  either  "The  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher"  or  "The  Merry  Men"  will  clarify  my 
meaning.  The  people  of  either  story  are  less  human 
beings  than  humanized  emotional  abstractions,  of  the 
same  stuff  of  gloom  or  mystery  as  the  house  or  sea. 
It  is  needless  t(  state  that  the  whole  weakness  of  the 
story  of  atmosphere  as  a  fiction  results  from  the  neces- 
sary devitalizing  of  its  characters,  for  fiction  primarily 
concerns  man,  his  conflicts  and  his  loves. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  SHORT  STORY 

Definition — Two  Types — Dramatic  Short  Story — Atmospheric 
Short  Story — Origins — Assumed  Unity  and  Singleness  of 
Effect  of  Dramatic  Short  Story — General  Technique  of 
Form — Characterization — Interest  and  Too  Great  Simplicity 
— Limitation  upon  Complexity  —  Length  —  Coherence  of 
Form — Compression. 

A  story  is  a  fiction  with  a  plot,  as  distinguished 
from  a  tale,  which  is  a  string  of  incidents  that  hap- 
pened to  happen  to  the  characters.  In  the  story  the 
events  are  linked  together  by  the  natures  of  the  people 
concerned ;  personality  influences  event  and  event  influ- 
ences personality.  And  the  short  story  is,  simply,  a 
short  story,  a  fiction,  possessing  a  plot,  that  could  be 
and  has  been  told  adequately  within  brief  limits.  A 
plot  is  a  dramatic  problem.  Therefore  the  short  story 
may  be  defined  roughly  as  a  story  embodying  a  dra- 
matic problem  which  can  be  stated  and  worked  out 
adequately  as  to  all  its  elements  of  personality,  event, 
and  setting  within  relatively  brief  limits. 

The  general  nature  of  the  short  story  having  been 
stated,  it  is  necessary  to  qualify  and  distinguish. 
Fiction  is  concerned  primarily  with  the  intrinsic  inter- 
est and  significance  of  man  and  his  acts,  the  elements 
of  drama,  but  there  are  three  fundamental  types  of 
story,  two  of  which  are  normal  and  the  other  abnormal. 
The  types  are  the  story  stressing  personality  and  the 

165 


166  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

story  stressing  incident,  which  are  normal,  and  the 
story  stressing  atmosphere,  which  is  abnormal  in  that 
persons  and  events  are  subordinate  to  the  emotional 
value  of  the  whole  for  a  reader,  which  is  usually  deter- 
mined by  the  setting.  Personality  is  the  most  promi- 
nent element  of  the  story  of  character,  and  the  events 
are  the  most  prominent  element  of  the  story  of  com- 
plication ;  each  story  stresses  one  of  the  twin  elements 
of  drama,  the  persons  and  their  acts;  and  each  story 
possesses  both  of  such  elements.  That  is,  both  the 
story  of  character  and  the  strict  story  of  plot — plot  as 
a  mere  sequence  of  events — have  some  dramatic  value. 
But  the  strict  story  of  atmosphere  has  no  dramatic 
value ;  its  nature  forbids  that  it  should.  The  emotional 
effect  is  usually  determined  by  the  setting,  and  the 
human  traits  that  will  intensify  a  setting — and  with 
which  the  characters  must  be  invested — are  not  such 
as  to  give  rise  to  a  dramatic  opposition  between  the  per- 
sons. The  definition  of  the  short  story  as  a  story  em- 
bodying a  dramatic  problem  which  can  be  presented 
adequately  within  brief  limits  does  not  cover  the  short 
story  of  atmosphere. 

In  other  words,  there  are  two  types  of  short  story, 
apart  from  the  three  types  determined  by  the  placing 
of  emphasis  upon  any  one  of  the  three  fictional  ele- 
ments of  personality,  event,  and  setting — the  dramatic 
short  story  and  the  short  story  of  unity  of  effect.  The 
dramatic  short  story  is  either  the  story  of  character 
or  the  story  of  complication  of  incident ;  the  short  story 
of  unity  of  effect  is  the  story  of  atmosphere.  The  two 
types  here  contrasted — the  dramatic  story  and  the 
atmospheric  story — could  not  be  covered  adequately 
or  to  any  purpose  by  a  single  definition ;  they  are  radi- 
cally different.  In  defining  the  short  story  I  have 
defined  merely  the  dramatic  short  story,  and  in  discus- 
sing it  I  shall  confine  myself  largely  to  the  dramatic 


THE  SHORT  STORY  167 

short  story  likewise,  for  the  story  of  atmosphere  has 
been  considered  elsewhere. 

Knowledge  of  the  origin  of  the  two  basic  types  of 
short  story,  the  dramatic  story  and  the  atmospheric 
story,  will  clarify  the  writer's  conceptions  of  the  types. 
The  story  of  atmosphere,  or  story  of  totality  of  emo- 
tional effect  on  a  reader,  was  first  consciously  perfected 
by  Poe,  wherein  lies  America's  single  claim  to  having 
originated  a  distinct  literary  type.  By  following  in 
prose  his  poetic  philosophy — as  stated  in  "The  Philo- 
sophy of  Composition" — Poe  produced  such  stories  as 
"Legeia"  and  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,"  which 
have  little  or  no  real  dramatic  value,  yet  which  are 
certainly  not  mere  tales,  for  they  have  plot-  or  story- 
value.  As  I  have  stated,  in  the  case  of  the  story  of 
atmosphere,  such  as  these  two  of  Poe's,  the  climactic 
ascension  of  the  particular  emotional  impression  to  the 
point  of  highest  intensity  supplies  much  of  the  plot-  or 
story- element  of  the  fiction. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  dramatic  short  story, 
embodying  a  true  plot,  may  be  said  to  have  originated 
in  France.  The  type  was  suggested  by  Poe's  work ;  the 
mere  mechanical  hint,  that  of  a  brief  story,  was  re- 
ceived eagerly  by  French  writers,  and  the  dramatic 
element,  entirely  altering  the  fundamental  character  of 
the  fiction,  was  speedily  injected.  The  result  has  been 
that  the  offshoot  has  entirely  overshadowed  the  parent 
stem,  and  this  simply  because  there  is  so  much  more 
material  for  the  dramatic  story  than  there  is  for  the 
story  of  unity  of  emotional  effect.  The  story  of  atmos- 
phere is  most  difficult  to  do  well,  so  that  relatively  few 
are  published;  it  has  no  wide  popular  appeal,  with  the 
same  result ;  while  the  range  of  emotional  effects  is  nar- 
row that  may  be  produced  on  a  reader  by  a  work  of 
fiction,  that  is,  there  is  less  material  for  the  story  of 
atmosphere  than  for  the  dramatic  story. 


168  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

It  is  time  now  to  notice  a  matter  concerning  which 
much  glib  statement  has  been  made,  the  "unity"  and 
singleness  of  effect  of  the  short  story.  The  usual  re- 
mark of  the  writer  or  talker  on  short  story  technique 
is  that  the  ideal  or  typical  short  story  will  manifest  the 
dramatic  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action,  and  will 
produce  a  single  effect.  But  it  is  notorious  that  only 
relatively  few  stories  do  manifest  the  dramatic  unities, 
so  the  speaker  or  writer  goes  on  to  say  most  lamely 
and  indefinitely  that  the  laws  of  technique  must  give 
way  to  the  requirements  of  any  particular  story. 
Grant  me  for  the  moment  that  the  dramatic  unities 
are  not  essential  to  the  perfect  short  story,  that  Mau- 
passant's "The  Necklace"  is  as  technically  perfect  a 
short  story  as  Poe's  "The  Cask  of  Amontillado,"  and 
the  viciousness  of  preaching  thus  to  the  short  story 
writer  becomes  apparent.  The  only  definite  thing  he 
is  told,  that  the  unities  are  essential  to  the  perfect 
short  story,  is  false. 

The  vice  of  such  statement  originates  in  failure 
to  distinguish  between  the  two  types  of  short  story, 
the  story  of  atmosphere  and  the  dramatic  story.  The 
story  of  atmosphere,  of  totality  or  unity  of  emotional 
effect  on  a  reader,  can  hardly  escape  manifesting  the 
aramatic  unities  of  place,  time,  and  action.  The 
emotional  effect  will  usually  be  that  of  a  single  definite 
place,  for  reasons  brought  out  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter; the  time  will  be  brief,  on  account  of  the  inherent 
difficulty  to  sustain  the  atmosphere ;  and  there  will  be 
little  complication  or  prolongation  of  the  action,  for  the 
same  reason.  But  the  dramatic  short  story  is  not  sub- 
ject to  the  limitations  imposed  by  the  necessity  always 
to  regard  atmosphere,  or  emotional  effect,  and  it  may  or 
may  not  manifest  the  dramatic  unities. 

The  way  to  state  the  relation  between  the  matter 
of  unity  and  the  dramatic  short  story,  the  short  story 


THE  SHORT  STORY  169 

of  true  plot,  is  this:  on  account  of  the  limited  space 
available,  the  plot  for  a  dramatic  short  story  will  tend  to 
involve  relatively  few  shifts  of  setting,  relatively  short 
spaces  of  time,  relatively  few  and  relatively  simple 
events,  and  relatively  few  persons.  No  other  sort  of 
plot  can  be  adequately  handled  within  narrow  word 
limits.  The  short  story  must  be  written  with  verbal 
fullness  and  elaboration,  that  its  phrasing  may  not  be 
bare  and  unlike  the  shaded  contours  of  life,  and  the  plot 
complicated  as  to  any  one  of  its  three  elements  of  per- 
sonality, setting,  and  event  cannot  be  adequately  de- 
veloped in  a  few  thousand  words.  The  short  story  is  the 
result  of  just  conception  and  selection,  rather  than  of 
mere  rhetorical  compression.  Stevenson's  "Mark- 
heim,"  for  instance,  is  written  more  elaborately  than 
almost  any  other  episode  in  fiction,  long  or  short,  that 
is,  any  other  episode  of  equal  length  in  point  of  the 
time  it  would  take  to  happen  in  actuality. 

Poe  was  the  first  writer  to  say  much  of  anything 
definite  about  his  art,  and  commentators  on  technique 
who  have  followed  him  have  merely  expanded  his  thesis 
rather  than  said  something  new.  The  only  trouble,  in 
relation  to  the  short  story,  is  that  Poe  spoke  of  unity 
and  singleness  of  effect  with  his  own  peculiar  type  of 
short  story  in  mind,  the  short  story  of  unity  or  totality 
of  emotional  effect,  the  short  story  of  atmosphere. 
When  he  stated  that  the  short  story — his  type  of  short 
story,  the  short  story  of  atmosphere — should  pos- 
sess unity  and  produce  a  single  effect,  he  stated 
the  truth,  but  when  it  is  stated  that  the  short  story 
meaning  both  the  story  of  atmosphere  and  the  dra- 
matic short  story — should  manifest  the  unities  and 
produce  a  single  effect,  the  statement  is  false.  In  the 
first  place,  the  dramatic  short  story  is  not  the  result 
of  the  same  technique  as  the  story  of  atmosphere;  in 
the  second  place,  the  unity  stated  by  Poe  to  be  essen- 


170  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

tial  to  the  story  of  emotional  effect  is  not  the  same 
thing  as  the  old  dramatic  unities,  which  are  me- 
chanical. The  fact  that  the  story  of  atmosphere 
can  hardly  escape  manifesting  the  dramatic  unities 
does  not  amalgamate  the  two  matters.  Poe's  unity  is 
unity  of  emotional  effect:  the  dramatic  unities  are 
singleness  of  time,  place,  and  action,  a  matter  that  can 
be  preserved  by  anyone,  though  usually  at  the  expense 
of  the  interest  of  the  story.  How  few  have  written  and 
can  write  so  as  to  produce  a  unity  of  emotional  effect 
need  only  be  suggested  to  enforce  my  point. 

The  matter  would  not  be  worth  treating  thus 
minutely  were  it  not  for  the  strong  tendency  to  mis- 
lead of  any  statement  that  the  short  story  must  mani- 
fest the  dramatic  unities.  Within  very  elastic  limits, 
the  unities  are  a  convention  of  the  drama,  but  they 
are  not  a  convention  of  fiction,  long  or  short.  The 
art  of  the  stage  and  the  art  of  the  story  differ  radi- 
cally; the  advantage  given  the  play  by  the  concrete- 
ness  of  its  spectacle  is  compensated  by  the  advantage 
given  the  story  by  its  more  inclusive  character  and 
greater  flexibility.  I  have  said  that  a  plot  or  story  of 
plot  is  a  dramatic  problem,  and  the  word  "dramatic" 
has  connotations  of  the  state,  but  what  was  meant  was 
that  a  plot  is  a  conflict  between  persons,  within  a  sin- 
gle person,  or  with  nature.  It  was  not  meant  that  a 
plot  or  story  of  plot  is  subject  to  the  conventions  of  the 
stage.  The  art  of  fiction  is  infinitely  more  inclusive  and 
flexible  than  the  art  of  the  stage,  and  the  writer  of 
fiction  must  utilize  to  the  full  the  advantages  of  his 
art  in  order  to  compensate  his  work  in  the  eyes  of  a 
reader  for  its  weakness — relative  to  the  play — in  vivid- 
ness and  body. 

One  may  say  that  the  spectacle  of  life  is 
infinitely  various,  so  that  the  writer  of  fiction  has 
plenty  of  material  for  stories  at  hand.  But  life, 


THE  SHORT  STORY  171 

despite  the  efforts  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  is  subject  to  no  con- 
ventions, social,  moral,  or  artistic,  and  the  short  story 
writer  who  brings  all  his  ideas  to  the  dramatic  unities 
as  a  first  test  will  winnow  little  grain  from  the  chaft. 
When  the  short  story  writer  finds  a  hint  for  a  story 
he  should  consider  whether  he  can  bring  out  with  his 
few  thousand  words  all  the  matters  necessary  to  the 
fiction's  having  full  effect  on  a  reader,  but  the  less  he 
frets  about  any  abstract  unity  or  singleness  of  effect 
the  better.  The  words  have  a  plausible  sound  in  discus- 
sion, but  they  mean  nothing,  except  in  relation  to  the 
story  of  atmosphere.  It  means  something  to  say  that 
the  dramatic  short  story  should  possess  unity  of  tone ; 
it  means  something  to  say  that  it  should  possess  unity 
of  style ;  but  it  means  nothing  to  say  that  it  should  pos- 
sess unity,  simply,  unless  the  dramatic  unities  are 
meant,  and  in  that  case  the  statement  is  false.  Some 
short  stories  happen  to  possess  the  dramatic  unities; 
more  do  not. 

By  the  very  nature  of  the  conceptive  process  the 
writer  seizes  his  story  ideas  in  terms  of  persons,  events, 
or  atmosphere.  And  when  he  has  a  definite  story  idea 
he  first  should  develop  it  so  as  to  give  it  maximum 
effect,  and  then  should  consider  whether  he  must  write 
a  short  story  or  novel  or  romance  to  give  his  developed 
idea  adequate  expression.  The  writer  who  starts  with 
some  abstract  knowledge  of  fiction  technique,  and  seeks 
to  vivify  rules  of  construction  into  a  definite  story,  will 
accomplish  very  little.  Good  stories  are  not  conceived 
that  way,  and  good  writers  do  not  go  to  work  that  way. 
The  story  is  the  thing,  and  it  does  not  lie  between  the 
covers  of  this  or  any  other  book  on  technique.  It  lies 
in  the  people  and  events  the  writer  sees  in  reality  or 
in  imagination,  and  to  find  it  the  writer  must  turn  to 
life  or  to  his  dreams.  After  the  story  is  found  the 
writer's  knowledge  of  and  facility  in  technique  will 


172  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

come  into  play  in  the  work  of  development  and  execu- 
tion. 

The  broad  outlines  of  the  technique  of  the  dramatic 
short  story  were  implied  in  the  statement  that  it  will 
tend  to  involve  relatively  few  shifts  of  setting,  rela- 
tively short  spaces  of  time,  relatively  few  and  relatively 
simple  events,  and  relatively  few  persons.  Its  unity  ot 
tone — which  is  characteristic  of  the  short  story,  dra- 
matic and  of  atmosphere — results  from  its  simplicity 
as  to  persons,  events,  and  setting,  and  its  unity  of  style 
results  from  its  unity  of  tone.  The  elements  of  the 
short  story  are  less  complex  than  those  of  a  longer 
fiction,  and  the  fact  causes  all  the  modifications  in  the 
general  technique  of  fiction  as  manifested  by  the  short 
story.  In  the  short  story,  for  instance,  there  is  less 
opportunity  than  in  the  novel  to  manage  secondary 
events  to  build  up  character  or  personality.  The  whole 
process  must  be  swifter,  and  the  writer  must  depend 
largely  on  direct  statement  and  description. 

This  matter  is  of  some  importance.  As  to  setting, 
the  technique  of  the  short  story  and  of  the  novel  are 
identical;  there  is  merely  less  setting  in  the  short 
story — speaking  quantitatively — because  the  type  in- 
volves fewer  shifts  of  place,  even  if  the  action  does 
not  happen  in  one  place.  And  the  technique  of  the 
short  story  and  of  the  novel  are  identical  as  to  action ; 
the  short  story  merely  involves  fewer  episodes.  But  as 
to  the  people,  the  technique  of  the  short  story  and  of 
the  novel  differ.  It  is  true  that  the  short  story  involves 
few  persons,  relatively  to  the  novel,  just  as  it  involves 
relatively  few  shifts  of  setting  and  relatively  few 
events,  but  the  difference  is  more  than  quantitative, 
and  so  affects  the  technique  of  the  type.  It  affects 
the  technique  of  the  short  story  because  characteriza- 
tion is  a  matter  achieved  by  showing  the  person  in 
action,  by  describing  him,  by  transcribing  his  speech, 


THE  SHORT  STORY  173 

and  by  stating  his  qualities  directly.  That  is  to  say, 
characterization  goes  on  in  every  part  of  the  story, 
except  where  setting  is  being  touched  in.  And  it  will 
go  on  there,  to  a  slight  extent,  if  the  environment  is 
given  in  terms  of  the  impressions  received  by  the 
character  affected.  On  the  other  hand,  narration,  or 
verbal  treatment  of  the  event,  and  the  description  of 
setting,  or  verbal  treatment  of  the  environment,  are 
more  or  less  distinct  and  separate  elements  of  a  story. 
The  matter  is  delicate,  and  I  run  some  risk  of  being 
obscure  here,  but  the  net  result  of  the  simplicity  and 
separateness  of  both  the  narrative  and  the  descriptive 
process  is  that  the  narrative  and  descriptive  technique 
of  the  short  story  is  the  narrative  and  descriptive 
technique  of  fiction  generally.  Writer  of  novel  and 
writer  of  short  story  can  narrate  a  murder  in  much  the 
same  way,  or  touch  in  a  countryside  with  identical 
technique,  but  they  cannot  handle  their  people 
similarly. 

Perhaps  the  point  can  be  made  clearer.  The 
writer  of  a  novel  and  the  writer  of  a  short  story  alike 
must  invest  their  people  with  the  vivacity,  distinction, 
and  concreteness  of  real  men  and  women,  but  where  the 
one  has  five  hundred  pages,  let  us  say,  the  other  has 
only  five  thousand  words.  It  is  a  task  difficult  enough 
at  best  to  precipitate  a  man  in  a  few  drops  of  ink.  It 
is  also  difficult  to  narrate  the  man's  actions  with  some 
of  the  vividness  of  reality,  or  to  touch  in  a  real  world 
for  him  to  move  in.  But  note  this.  Where  the  novel- 
ist must  deal  with  a  large  number  of  events  and  scenes, 
the  short  story  writer  has  only  a  few  to  handle;  he 
has  about  as  many  words  available  for  each  of  his  few 
as  the  novelist  has  for  his  many.  That  is  not  the 
case  in  creating  characters.  The  process  of  charac- 
terization must  permeate  any  fiction,  forwarded 
by  the  narrative  matter,  the  dialogue,  the  expository 


174  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

matter,  and  the  descriptive  matter  alike.  And  the 
novelist  has  five  hundred  pages  to  initiate,  reinforce, 
and  complete  the  illusion  of  personality  where  the  short 
story  writer  has  but  five  thousand  words.  The  novelist 
has  more  people  to  vivify,  it  is  true,  but  not  enough 
more  than  the  short  story  writer  to  give  the  latter  an 
equal  chance  if  he  follows  the  same  technique. 

It  all  comes  down  to  this:  a  story,  long  or  short, 
can  be  broken  up  into  its  several  episodes  and  scenes, 
which  are  mechanically  separable,  but  its  people  move 
through  the  whole.  Since  any  event  or  any  scene  is  in 
a  sense  a  mere  item  of  a  story,  not  universally  influen- 
tial, the  technique  of  handling  event  or  scene  simply 
as  such  is  much  the  same,  whatever  the  type  of  story. 
But  since  the  element  of  personality  is  universally  pres- 
ent and  influential  in  a  story,  the  technique  of  charac- 
terization varies  with  the  essential  nature  of  the  story 
as  a  whole. 

The  result  of  the  condition  upon  the  general  tech- 
nique of  characterization  as  applied  in  the  short  story 
must  now  be  stated. 

I  have  said  already  that  the  whole  process  must 
be  swifter,  but  that  is  not  very  definite.  Expanded, 
the  statement  amounts  to  saying  that  the  short  story 
writer  cannot  develop  personality  with  the  fullness  and 
diversity  of  the  novelist;  he  must  concentrate  his  ver- 
bal resources  upon  the  trait  developed  by  the  few 
events  of  the  story  and  upon  a  few  striking  peculiari- 
ties of  appearance  and  speech.  As  to  the  strict  trait  of 
character,  the  story  itself  will  point  the  way.  It  will 
have  one  main  situation,  and  probably  that  one  will  be 
of  such  a  nature  as  to  involve  relatively  simple  attri- 
butes of  soul  in  the  persons  concerned.  As  to  the 
more  superficial  matter  of  making  the  persons  seem 
real  and  lifelike,  the  writer  must  describe  sharply, 
lather  than  at  length — as  Stevenson  did  in  "A  Lodging 


THE  SHORT  STORY  175 

for  the  Night" — and  must  make  his  people  talk  as 
individually  as  possible.  The  general  aim,  of  course,  is 
the  same  as  in  the  longer  story,  to  present  real  charac- 
ters of  unique  appearance  and  speech.  And  the  writ- 
ter's  resources — again  of  course — are  the  same,  but 
the  brevity  of  the  short  story  forces  him  to  concentrate 
upon  one  matter  of  soul,  one  matter — or  at  most  a  few 
—of  appearance,  and  one  matter  of  speech.  The  whole 
art  of  fiction  is  selective ;  even  the  novel  cannot  present 
justly  the  complete  man;  and  the  short  story,  simply 
because  it  is  short,  is  the  most  highly  selective  fiction 
of  all.  It  cannot  present  the  whole  man,  but  it  must 
seem  to.  A  reader  will  not  feel  the  absence  of  traits 
not  involved  in  the  events,  and  by  vivid  and  brief  de- 
scriptive touches,  reinforced  by  unique  speech,  any 
character  can  be  invested  with  what  will  be  accepted  as 
a  complete  physical  presence. 

As  stated,  the  story  itself,  if  a  true  story  and  not  a 
tale,  will  show  its  writer  that  his  expository  matter  or 
direct  statement  as  to  character  must  bear  only  upon 
the  traits  involved  in  the  plot-situation  of  the  story. 
The  necessity  is  not  peculiar  to  the  short  story,  but  it  is 
more  insistent  than  in  the  case  of  the  novel.  The  other 
points  of  the  technique  of  characterizing  in  the  short 
story  are  purely  verbal,  and  the  writer's  success  de- 
pends upon  his  faculty  in  pungent  description  and  in 
handling  speech. 

The  remainder  of  the  technique  of  the  short 
story,  apart  from  the  matter  of  creating  real  men  and 
women,  is  not  verbal,  but  constructive,  and  is  implied 
in — as  it  results  from — the  brevity  of  the  fiction.  Un- 
like the  novelist,  the  writer  of  the  short  story  has  space 
for  nothing  but  the  story.  He  cannot  drag  in  by  the 
heels  episodes  unessential  to  the  story  solely  for  the 
sake  of  their  intrinsic  interest ;  he  cannot  waste  words 
upon  unessential  persons.  He  is  faced  by  two  facts — 


176  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

that  his  story  must  be  interesting,  so  that  it  will  prob- 
ably have  to  involve  considerable  complication  as  to 
persons,  events,  and  setting,  and  that  it  must  be  told 
with  enough  verbal  fullness  and  elaboration  to  give  it 
the  body  and  seeming  of  life.  Trimming  between  the 
necessity  to  interest  and  the  necessity  to  invest  his 
story  with  reality,  the  writer  first  must  find  an  inter- 
esting story,  and  then,  in  writing,  or  in  developing  and 
writing,  must  be  vigilant  to  transcribe  nothing  unes- 
sential to  the  story,  or  he  will  be  forced  to  exceed  his 
space-limit. 

The  process  comprehends  most  of  the  technique 
of  the  short  story.  The  whole  difference  between  it 
and  the  novel  is  that  the  novel  is  more  discursive. 
Much  of  the  novel's  interest,  quite  permissibly,  may 
inhere  in  persons,  episodes,  and  matter  generally  with- 
out relation  to  the  main  thread  of  the  story.  But  a 
short  story's  interest  may  not  inhere  in  matter  for- 
eign to  the  thread  of  the  story.  That  is  the  case  not 
because  of  any  arbitrary  requirement  that  it  be  a 
"unity,"  but  simply  because  a  short  story  cannot  be 
told  adequately  as  to  the  story  without  exceeding  the 
word-limit  if  unessential  matter  be  incorporated 
with  it. 

The  fallacy,  whether  on  the  part  of  commentator 
on  technique  or  writer  of  fiction,  in  approaching  the 
short  story  as  some  sort  of  artificial  fictional  unity  lies 
in  the  implicit  disregard  of  the  necessity  to  interest. 
The  first  necessity  is  that  a  story  interest,  and  to 
meet  it  the  writer  must  devise  some  complication  of 
persons,  motives,  and  events,  and  usually  that  will 
involve  some  diversity  of  setting,  or  change  of  place. 
The  second  necessity  is  that  the  story  be  told  so  as 
to  create  the  illusion  of  reality,  and  to  meet  it 
the  writer  will  be  forced  to  exhaust  his  few  thousand 
words.  The  necessity  that  the  story  interest  can  be 


THE  SHORT  STORY  177 

met  only  rarely  without  violating  the  unities  of  the 
drama ;  therefore  they  are  not  a  convention  of  the  art 
of  the  short  story.  Apart  from  the  matter  of  unity  of 
tone  and  style,  the  short  story  is  a  unity  only  in  that 
it  is  one  single  story,  nothing  more,  nothing  less.  That 
is,  each  word  is  essential  to  the  fiction  as  such.  But 
that  does  not  mean  that  the  story  or  plot  is  a  unity  in 
itself.  It  may  involve  much  diversity  in  the  three  fic- 
tional elements  of  personality,  event,  and  setting,  the 
last  of  which  includes  time. 

I  emphasize  the  matter  because  the  beginning 
writer  is  apt  to  devise  stories  too  simple  to  present  a 
real  problem  to  awaken  a  reader's  interest.  There  is 
also  the  converse  fault,  of  course,  that  of  devising  a 
story  too  complicated  to  be  given  adequate  expression 
in  few  words,  but  this  fault  will  tend  to  correct  itself 
through  the  difficulties  the  writer  will  meet  in  execu- 
tion. The  other  will  not  tend  to  correct  itself.  The 
more  simple  the  story,  the  easier  it  will  be  to  write 
with  some  approach  to  adequacy.  The  writer  who 
fancies  that  a  short  story  must  involve  as  little  as 
possible  diversity  of  people,  events,  and  places  may 
very  well  continue  to  devise  stories  too  simple  to 
awaken  interest,  however  effectively  they  may  be  told. 
He  will  have  no  trouble  in  writing  each  one  within  his 
space,  but  he  will  have  trouble  in  getting  them  pub- 
lished, for  each  will  be  lacking  in  essential  fictional 
value,  the  capacity  to  interest.  Here  I  can  make  only 
general  statement,  and  it  is  impracticable  to  dwell  on 
the  fact  that  leal  and  highly  individualized  characters 
will  invest  a  simple  story  with  all  the  interest  of  a  more 
complicated  fiction.  The  general  truth,  however,  is 
that  the  interest  of  a  tale  lies  in  the  problem  it  pre- 
sents and  solves,  that  a  problem  involves  complication 
and  diversity,  and  that  a  writer  may  go  astray  who 
seeks  only  the  dramatically  unified  and  simple  plot.  His 

12 


178  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

work  will  interest  a  reader  if  he  creates  real  people, 
but  the  capacity  to  do  so  is  a  rare  faculty.  At  the 
bottom  of  it,  a  story,  long  or  short,  is  a  sequence  of 
events ;  they  should  not  be  too  simple,  for,  apart  from 
the  human  element,  simplicity  presents  no  problem  to 
awaken  a  reader's  interest. 

The  sole  limitation  upon  the  complexity  and  di- 
versity of  the  short  story  as  a  whole  is  the  difficulty  to 
develop  in  few  words  a  plot  complicated  as  to  per- 
sonality, event,  place,  or  time.  Accordingly,  the  plot 
suitable  for  a  short  story  will  tend  to  be  simple,  but  it 
need  not  be  so  simple  that  the  events,  apart  from  the 
people,  will  not  awaken  interest.  Moreover,  the  un- 
skilled writer  who  has  experienced  the  difficulty  to 
develop  an  interesting  plot  in  few  words  will  be  as- 
tonished by  the  results  of  a  little  forethought  and  care- 
ful planning  before  writing.  Elimination  and  suppres- 
sion of  inessential  and  relatively  unimportant  matters 
will  enable  him  to  set  forth  adequately,  though  in  a  few 
words,  a  story  of  real  body  and  interest. 

The  whole  discussion  should  awaken  realization  of 
the  fact  that  the  short  story  is  the  most  difficult  form 
of  prose  fiction.  To  the  general  difficulty  of  all  fiction 
it  adds  the  difficulty  that  whatever  is  done  must  be 
done  in  a  few  words.  The  writer  of  novel  or  romance 
has  only  to  interest,  and  his  space  is  practically  un- 
limited. The  short  story  writer  must  interest,  and  he 
must  interest  in  few  words  and  pages.  He  must  depend 
solely  on  his  story;  he  has  space  for  nothing  else.  He 
should  remember  that  each  item  of  unessential  matter 
given  place  by  him  will  lessen  by  just  so  much  the 
number  of  words  available  to  give  the  real  story  veri- 
similitude and  consequent  interest  and  appeal.  To  take 
the  conceptive  aspect  of  it,  in  devising  a  short  story 
he  should  remember  that  inclusion  of  any  accidental 
and  unessential  matter  must  lessen  by  just  so  much  his 


THE  SHORT  STORY  179 

power  to  awaken  interest  by  some  diversity  and  com- 
plication in  the  real  story. 

When  a  story  idea  is  found,  the  writer  should  de- 
termine precisely  what  matters  must  be  brought  out  if 
the  fiction  is  to  have  full  effect  on  a  reader,  who  will 
have  only  the  writer's  words  to  go  on.  The  writer 
should  realize  precisely  what  elements  of  personality 
are  significant  in  relation  to  the  main  situation,  which 
is  the  story  in  little,  and  should  prepare  to  develop  the 
motives  and  traits  involved.  He  should  determine  pre- 
cisely what  will  be  the  most  effective  physical  move- 
ment for  the  story,  the  nature  and  order  of  events,  also 
the  setting  or  environment.  He  should  consider  the  es- 
sential nature  of  the  main  situation,  or  climax,  and, 
if  he  cannot  manage  that  preceding  events  shall  pre- 
pare a  reader  for  it,  he  should  prepare  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  story  to  hint  what  is  to  come,  as  Stevenson 
does  in  "Markheim."  Finally,  he  should  grasp  the 
developed  story  as  a  whole,  and  be  vigilant  to  transcribe 
nothing  unessential,  for  if  the  story  is  real  fictional 
knot  or  problem,  and  worth  while,  he  cannot  do  so 
without  sacrificing  essential  matter  or  exceeding  his 
limits. 

The  physical  brevity  of  the  short  story  certainly 
has  great  influence  in  the  direction  of  simplicity.  But 
its  brevity  does  not  subject  the  dramatic  short  story 
to  the  conventions  of  the  stage.  It  must  be  a  unity, 
so-called,  but  only  in  this,  that  every  word  must  be 
necessary  to  develop  the  story-idea,  which,  in  itself, 
may  be  simple  or  somewhat  complex.  The  short  story 
of  atmosphere  is  another  matter. 

Coherence  is  a  word  much  better  than  unity  to 
express  the  most  significant  attribute  of  the  dramatic 
short  story.  The  form  is  coherent  in  that  every  word, 
line,  and  sentence  has  relation  to  the  story  itself.  The 
novel  is  relatively  incoherent  in  that  it  often  embodies 


180  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

whole  stories  without  relation  to  the  main  story,  or 
matter  without  relation  to  any  story  at  all.  The  most 
pungent  way  to  put  the  point  of  the  whole  discussion 
is  to  state  that  the  short  story,  viewed  merely  as  a 
sequence  of  words,  is  coherent  in  that  each  word  serves 
to  forward  a  single  story-idea  to  its  conclusion.  That 
is  not  to  state  that  the  story-idea  itself  is  coherent  or  a 
unity.  It  is  a  unity  in  that  it  is  single,  one  story,  but 
the  one  story  need  not  manifest  unity  of  time,  place, 
and  action.  The  sooner  the  short  story  writer  clears 
his  head  of  any  notion  that  the  verbal  coherence  of  the 
dramatic  short  story  involves  some  indefinable  unity 
in  its  matter  or  story-idea,  or  some  equally  indefinable 
singleness  of  effect,  the  better  for  him,  his  work  and 
pocketbook.* 

There  would  be  no  great  profit  in  summarizing 
here  the  items  of  technique  treated  in  other  chapters. 
All  are  of  use  in  the  short  story,  functioning  as  in  other 
forms  of  prose  fiction.  Apart  from  the  matter  of  char- 
acterization, the  peculiar  technique  of  the  short  story 
is  constructive  and  supervisory,  rather  than  executive. 
The  writer  must  make  certain  that  he  has  one  story 
and  nothing  else,  for  only  one  story  can  be  adequately 

*The  root  cause  of  all  the  unintelligent  discussion  of  the 
short  story's  unity  in  books  on  technique  is  failure  to  distin- 
guish between  form  and  content.  The  mere  fact  that  no  word 
without  relation  to  the  story-idea  can  be  transcribed  does  not 
mean  that  the  story-idea — complex  of  people,  events,  and  set- 
tings— is  a  unity.  The  short  story  is  a  unit  in  that  it  is  one 
story,  rather  than  two  or  ten,  but — it  is  not  impertinent  to  ask — 
what  of  it?  A  single  story  may  involve  great  diversity  and 
complication  of  elements.  And  it  is  what  is  known  as  a  short 
story  if  it  can  be  presented  adequately  within  some  few  thou- 
and  words,  though  it  begin  in  a  king's  palace  with 
tragedy  and  end  in  laughter  in  a  Harlem  flat.  Poe's  type  of 
short  story  is  another  matter;  it  does  possess  unity  of  content 
in  that  setting,  personality,  and  events  are  subtly  alike. 


THE  SHORT  STORY  181 

developed  within  brief  limits.  In  writing,  he  must  take 
care  to  transcribe  only  story-matter,  for  the  same 
reason.  But  in  narrating  an  event,  or  in  describing  a 
setting,  after  he  has  determined  that  event  and  setting 
are  essential  to  his  single  story,  the  writer  may  employ 
the  technique  of  general  narrative  or  descriptive 
writing.  Whatever  the  form  of  fiction,  its  aim  is  the 
same,  to  show  real  men  and  women  doing  in  a  real 
world  the  things  one  might  expect  from  their  natures 
and  the  circumstances  of  their  lives. 

In  the  chapter  on  story  types  something  was  said 
as  to  the  current  insistence  upon  the  verbal  compres- 
sion of  the  short  story.  As  stated  there,  the  short 
story,  dramatic  or  atmospheric,  is  not  the  result  of  mere 
rhetorical  compression,  rather  of  the  inherent  brevity 
of  the  conception.  The  executive  technique  of  long 
story  and  short  are  identical,  except  as  to  the  single 
matter  of  characterization.  The  short  story  develops 
its  fewer  episodes  with  as  much  rhetorical  elaboration 
as  the  novel  develops  its  many,  and  the  writer  who  con- 
ceives that  a  short  story  can  be  produced  by  verbal 
paring  and  filing  is  on  the  highroad  to  failure. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  NOVEL 

Novel  and  Romance — Romanticism  and  Realism — Techniques  of 
Novel  and  Romance — Incoherence  of  Novel  Relative  to  Short 
Story — Novel  as  Medium  of  Self-Expression — Interpolation 
of  Personal  Comment — Significant  Simplicity — Permissible 
Inclusiveness  of  Novel — Full  Development  of  Personality — 
Variety  of  Action — Length — Initial  Idea — Story — Life — 
Society — Singleness  of  Story — Social  Emphasis. 

I  have  a  small  dictionary  on  my  desk  which  de- 
fines the  novel  as  a  "fictitious  prose  narrative  or  tale 
presenting  a  picture  of  real  life,"  and  the  romance  as 
"any  fictitious  and  wonderful  tale:  a  fictitious  narra- 
tive in  prose  or  verse  which  passes  beyond  the  limits 
of  real  life."  The  definitions  state  a  distinction  easier 
to  feel  vaguely  than  to  justify.  One  may  say  with 
truth  that  Jane  Austen's  "Sense  and  Sensibility"  or 
Trollope's  "The  Warden"  presents  a  picture  of  real  life, 
but  can  one  also  say  with  truth  that  Hawthorne's 
"The  Scarlet  Letter"  or  Stevenson's  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde"  passes  essentially  beyond  the  limits  of  real  life 
simply  because  each  book  states  a  physically  impossible 
thing — the  brand  of  his  sin  over  Arthur  Dimmesdale's 
heart  and  the  metomorphosis  of  Dr.  Jekyll?  Either 
matter  is  a  mere  symbol,  devised  to  give  concreteness  to 
a  spiritual  fact.  Is  it  not  true  than  human  life,  the  ma- 
terial for  fiction,  has  its  spiritual  actualities  as  well  as 
its  physical  facts?  and  does  not  the  romance — as  it  is 

182 


THE  NOVEL  183 

commonly  understood — differ  from  the  novel  merely  in 
that  it  narrates  a  real  adventure  of  the  soul  rather 
than  a  real  adventure  of  the  body? 

The  fact  is  patent,  I  think,  that  the  writer  of  fic- 
tion will  gain  small  benefit  from  conceiving  the  romance 
as  something  separate  and  apart  from  the  novel;  like- 
wise, that  a  book  on  technique  without  confusion  may 
treat  the  writing  of  long  fiction  generally  as  the  writ- 
ing of  novels.  It  is  true,  of  course,  that  the  essential 
bent  of  any  particular  writer  may  lead  him  to  deal  with 
the  facts  of  the  soul  rather  than  the  facts  of  the  body, 
or  that  any  particular  story  may  be  a  spiritual  rather 
than  a  physical  adventure;  nevertheless  the  story  of 
the  spirit  must  still  develop  facts  and  show  their  rela- 
tions, and  the  technical  resources  of  its  writer  are  pre- 
cisely the  same  as  those  of  the  writer  who  deals  pre- 
dominately with  the  more  concrete  physical  facts  of 
life. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  go  at  some  length  into 
this  question  of  romance,  all  its  connotations  and  impli- 
cations. In  particular,  there  is  an  antithesis  in  common 
thought,  with  romanticism  and  realism  the  two  opposed 
members,  which  it  would  not  be  too  dull  to  discuss.  But 
the  discussion  would  not  give  much  light  to  one  who  de- 
sires to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  the  mechanics  of  fiction, 
long  or  short.  It  is  permissible  to  call  a  realist  one  who 
transcribes  predominately  physical  details,  and  it  is  per- 
missible to  call  a  romanticist  one  who  transcribes  pre- 
dominated spiritual  details,  but  in  both  cases  the  basic 
technique  is  identical.  The  realist  can  confine  himself 
to  physical  facts  because  his  story  deals  largely  with 
the  everyday  actualities  of  life,  and  its  subordinate 
spiritual  values  will  be  felt  by  a  reader  through  infer- 
ence from  the  facts.  The  romanticist  must  state 
spiritual  facts  directly  because  they  are  the  very  stuff 
and  essence  of  his  story.  He  is  none  the  less  a  realist 


184  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

if  there  are  spiritual  actualities — an  indisputable  pro- 
position— and  if  he  states  them  as  they  exist  for  him. 

The  critical  discussion  that  treats  realism  and 
romanticism  as  opposed  artistic  philosophies  is  so 
confused  that  it  would  serve  no  useful  purpose  to  go 
into  the  matter  here.  What  little  I  have  to  say  on  the 
subject  will  be  said  in  the  next  chapter.  But  it  is  not 
inappropriate  to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  every 
story  conceived — in  Stevenson's  phrase — from  within 
outwards,  the  only  genesis  for  a  work  of  art,  is  merely 
a  subjective  reality;  it  never  happened.  Perhaps  it  is 
so  essentially  commonplace  that  it  probably  has  hap- 
pened sometime;  perhaps  it  is  so  little  abnormal  that 
very  possibly  it  has  happened.  Or  perhaps  it  may  be 
of  such  a  nature  that  it  never  could  have  happened. 
In  any  event,  whatever  the  nature  of  the  story,  its 
verity  and  reality  as  a  fiction  depend  solely  upon  its 
writer's  elaborative  and  executive  powers.  If  his  hand 
falter,  tangibility  and  concreteness  in  the  matter  of 
the  story  will  not  save  it,  will  not  make  it  seem  real 
to  a  reader.  The  lives  of  most  men  are  commonplace, 
but  the  relatively  few  lives  that  are  not  commonplace 
are  as  real  and  actual  as  those  that  follow  beaten 
paths.  In  the  lives  of  most,  the  spiritual  element  is 
subordinate,  perhaps,  but  in  the  lives  of  some  few  it  is 
enormously  influential  and  supremely  real.  Realism, 
the  artistic  philosophy,  asserts  that  fiction  should  pre- 
sent only  the  real.  The  assertion  is  nonsense  for  two 
reasons.  First,  the  commonplace,  or,  if  you  please 
the  inevitable,  the  only  reality  which  realism  admits, 
is  not  the  only  reality.  Second,  the  verity  or  reality 
of  fiction  cannot  be  ascertained  by  any  objective  test, 
cannot  be  determined  by  the  physical  possibility  of  its 
matter,  its  people  and  their  acts,  for  a  fiction  is  purely 
subjective,  a  conception,  and  conceivability  is  the  sole 


THE  NOVEL  185 

test  of  its  verity.  The  writer  of  a  story  transcribes 
what  he  sees,  not  necessarily  what  is.* 

As  stated,  the  writer  of  fiction  will  derive  small 
benefit  from  conceiving  novel  and  romance  as  entirely 
different  types  of  fiction.  The  distinction  between 
them  used  to  be  insisted  upon  much  more  pedantically 
than  is  the  case  to-day,  and  the  present  tendency  to 
call  any  story  of  book-length  a  novel  is  a  healthy  sign. 
The  technique  of  the  novel,  in  the  narrow  sense  of  a 
picture  of  society,  and  the  technique  of  the  romance, 
in  the  narrow  sense  of  a  story  not  of  "real"  life,  are 
broadly  the  same.  And  where  there  is  no  difference 
in  technique  the  artist  should  admit  no  difference  in 
type.  If  he  does  admit  any  difference  in  type,  and 
allows  it  to  influence  him,  his  conceptive  faculty  will  be 
hampered  and  that  is  artistic  death.  It  is  hard  enough 
to  find  a  story  that  is  worth  while,  a  story  that  will 
interest,  without  subjecting  one's  self  to  the  added  and 
totally  unnecessary  difficulty  to  bring  all  one's  ideas 
to  the  measure  of  some  fancied  type  as  a  first  test. 
The  writer  of  fiction  should  be  warned  that  it  is 
supremely  difficult  to  avoid  becoming  artificial,  and 
mechanical,  and  that  he  will  surely  become  so  if  he  does 
his  conceptive  thinking  in  terms  of  analysis.  In  the 
first  place,  the  analytical  habit  of  mind  is  directly  op- 
posed to  the  creative ;  in  the  second  place,  the  analysis 
that  divides  long  stories  into  novels  and  romances  in 
the  special  sense  is  false.  The  way  to  find  a  story  is  to 
look  for  a  story,  forgetting  all  that  pedants  have 
written  and  failures  practiced.  The  silly  criticism  that 
classifies  fiction  by  its  content  is  beneath  contempt ;  the 
writer  of  fiction  who  heeds  it  is  supremely  foolish. 

In  the  following  discussion  the  term  "novel"  will  be 
used  simply  to  denote  a  plotted  fiction  of  book-length. 

*  For  a  plainer,  because  less  philosophical  discussion  of  the 
fallacies  of  realism,  the  artistic  philosophy,  see  p.  199. 


186  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

Contrasting-  the  short  story  and  the  novel,  and 
dwelling  on  the  relative  coherence  of  the  briefer  form, 
I  had  occasion  to  state  that  the  novel  is  relatively  in- 
coherent in  that  much  of  its  interest  for  a  reader  quite 
permissibly  may  inhere  in  matter  with  little  or  no  rela- 
tion to  the  main  thread  of  the  story.  Of  course,  inco- 
herence is  not  a  point  of  the  technique  of  the  novel. 
Incoherence  is  not  a  point  of  the  technique  of  anything, 
except  of  some  of  the  ultra  modern  schools  in  music, 
painting,  and  verse.  The  statement  as  to  the  incoher- 
ence of  the  novel  was  made  incidentally  in  developing 
the  argument  that  the  short  story  cannot  be  incoherent 
because  its  brevity  forbids  that  it  present  even  its 
single  story-idea  adequately  and  also  set  forth  irrele- 
vant matter.  On  the  other  hand,  the  novel  may  set 
forth  irrelevant  matter  because  its  length  is  not  only 
a  greater  but  a  more  elastic  quantity  than  that  of  the 
short  story;  if  the  interruptions  of  the  story  are  not 
too  frequent  and  sustained,  the  power  of  the  story  over 
a  reader  will  not  be  lessened  to  any  appreciable  extent. 
That  is  not  to  say  that  the  novelist  should  seek  to  inter- 
rupt himself. 

A  good  many  serious  writers — so-called — choose  to 
write  the  novel  simply  because  it  does  offer  an  oppor- 
tunity for  direct  self-expression  greater  than  any  af- 
forded by  briefer  fiction.  They  are  confined  to  fiction- 
may  they  pardon  the  remark — because  they  have  met, 
or  feel  that  they  will  meet,  difficulty  in  finding  a  pub- 
lisher for  their  various  theories  stated  as  such ;  so  they 
blithely  write  a  novel,  with  insertions  of  politics,  reli- 
gion, sociology,  what  not,  and  palm  it  off  on  the  un- 
happy public  for  a  story.  Of  course  such  direct  expres- 
sion of  one's  opinions  is  not  self-expression  through  the 
medium  of  a  work  of  art.  It  is  only  choosing  deliberate- 
ly to  do  poor  work  for  the  sake  of  money  or  notoriety 


THE  NOVEL  187 

or  vanity.  Writing  the  "problem  novel"  is  not  quite  the 
same  thing.  If  a  social  problem,  as  the  friction  between 
capital  and  labor,  is  utilized  as  the  fundamental  plot- 
or  conflict-theme  of  a  novel,  a  good  deal  of  personal 
opinion  may  be  introduced  by  the  author  without  in- 
jury to  the  artistic  coherence  of  the  story.  But  it  is 
well  to  remember  that  the  primary  aim  of  fiction  is  to 
interest,  an  aim  that  can  be  achieved  most  easily  and 
most  completely  by  telling  a  good  story.  Propaganda 
is  apt  to  be  supremely  dull  anyway,  and  it  is  bound  to 
seem  dull  to  one  who  is  looking  for  a  story  and  nothing 
else.  The  practical  implications  of  a  work  of  art  must 
be  mere  implications,  resting  in  inference,  or  the  work 
will  be  feeble  and  misshapen. 

The  novelist  can  indulge  in  personal  comment  and 
yet  present  the  whole  of  his  story,  for  his  space  is 
practically  unlimited.  The  writer  of  the  short  story 
must  sacrifice  either  the  comment  or  the  story.  The 
result  is  that  the  typical  novel  is  more  incoherent  than 
the  typical  short  story.  The  finer  the  book  as  a  whole, 
the  easier  it  is  to  forgive  or  overlook  the  defect,  for 
defect  it  is.  One  can  forgive  Thackeray  his  rambling 
asides  and  his  diffidence  in  approaching  his  story,  for 
in  all  of  his  books  the  story  is  present  and  in  each  it 
is  a  fine  thing.  But  "Vanity  Fair,"  for  instance,  is  too 
significant  a  fiction  to  suffer  constant  interrurtion 
without  causing  a  reader  to  become  impatient.  If  a 
story  is  essentially  weak,  interpolating  personal  com- 
ment and  unrelated  matter  generally  will  make  it 
weaker ;  if  it  is  essentially  fine  and  significant,  passages 
without  bearing  on  the  story  will  irritate  the  reader. 

Whatever  the  art,  whoever  the  artist,  his  task  is 
to  hold  pen  or  chisel  or  brush  true  to  the  outlines  of 
his  conception.  If  his  hand  leave  its  proper  course, 
whether  of  set  purpose  or  through  inaptitude,  his  work 
must  suffer.  The  art  of  fiction  is  so  infinitely  difficult 


188  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

that  the  practitioner  should  welcome  rather  than  be- 
wail his  obligation  to  hew  to  the  line,  for  by  concentrat- 
ing upon  the  story  and  nothing  else  he  will  be  led  to 
leave  no  gaps  in  his  presentment.  A  work  of  art  is  a 
thing  of  significant  simplicity.  Just  because  the  novel- 
ist works  in  words,  just  because  his  materials  have 
some  significance  for  a  reader  in  themselves — unlike 
the  clay  and  marble  of  the  sculptor,  the  stone  of  the 
architect,  and  the  pigments  of  the  painter,  which,  un- 
wrought  upon,  have  no  message  for  an  observer — the 
novelist  is  not  at  liberty  to  throw  words  together  with- 
out some  set  purpose.  The  inherent  significance  of 
each  word  must  have  just  relation  to  the  whole,  if  the 
whole  is  to  have  f  he  direction  and  significant  simplicity 
of  a  work  of  art.  The  real  condition  is  that  the  novel- 
ist, unlike  the  writer  of  the  short  story,  may  tell  his 
story  adequately  and  do  something  else,  but  the  artis- 
tic quality  of  his  work  will  suffer,  that  is,  its  power  over 
a  reader  will  be  diminished,  if  he  interpolates  foreign 
matter.  Artistry  is  simply  the  faculty  to  realize  to 
the  utmost  the  inherent  power  of  one's  conceptions,  and 
the  artistry  of  any  fiction  lessens  as  the  appeal  of  the 
story  for  a  reader  diminishes.  And  the  appeal  of  a 
story  as  such  must  diminish  with  every  interruption, 
unless  its  power  over  a  reader  be  very  great,  and  in 
that  case  any  break  in  its  movement  will  irritate  and 
offend. 

I  have  cited  Stevenson's  "The  Ebb-Tide"  a  number 
of  times  already,  and  the  book  may  be  instanced  here. 
It  is  a  tremendously  powerful  bit  of  work,  considering 
the  nature  of  its  matter,  and  its  power  over  a  reader  in 
large  part  results  from  its  author's  having  confined 
himself  strictly  to  the  story.  The  conception  is  signifi- 
cant, and  the  story  as  written  is  significant  because  the 
conception  is  set  forth  whole  and  unmarred.  The  read- 
er's attention  is  not  distracted  by  matter  irrelevant  to 


THE  NOVEL  189 

the  story.  Its  theme,  the  impossibility  that  a  weak 
man  should  be  other  than  weak,  however  he  may  be 
circumstanced,  is  developed  adequately,  and  nothing 
else  is  developed.  No  book  could  be  more  wisely  recom- 
mended to  the  writer  of  fiction  for  study  of  the  essen- 
tial technical  processes  of  fiction.  It  shows  adequate 
treatment  of  personality,  adequate  treatment  of  events, 
and  adequate  treatment  of  setting,  shows  fictionally 
real  people  doing  fictionally  real  things  in  a  fictionally 
real  environment.  Above  all,  it  is  a  story,  nothing  else, 
and  is  pointed  to  bring  out  its  value  as  a  whole ;  that  is 
it  has  the  significant  simplicity  of  a  true  work  of  art. 
It  is  coherent  as  to  the  story  it  embodies,  and  in  its 
coherence  lies  its  power.  The  bare  conception  is  some- 
what weak  in  that  it  tends  to  arouse  an  intellectual 
rather  than  an  emotional  interest  in  a  reader;  more- 
over, the  conception  is  positively  unpleasant  and  de- 
pressing, in  the  conventional  sense;  but  the  book  as 
written  is  a. powerful  thing  because  it  realizes  to  the 
full  the  inherent  capacity  of  its  matter  to  interest  and 
impress  by  telling  the  story  adequately  and  by  bringing 
out  nothing  but  the  story.* 

*  "The  Ebb-Tide"  is  interesting  in  connection  with  the  gen- 
eral question  of  plot.  Its  plot  is  the  struggle  within  Robert 
Herrick  between  an  artificially  stimulated  resolution  and  an  es- 
sential weakness  of  moral  fibre.  The  mere  mechanical  complica- 
tion that  he  and  his  fellows  steal  a  schooner  laden  with  bottled 
water  thinking  her  laden  with  champagne  is  no  part  of  the  plot, 
only  a  circumstance  of  the  action,  yet,  as  plot  is  commonly  under- 
stood, the  circumstance  would  be  taken  as  the  heart  of  the  plot 
in  itself.  Also,  "The  Ebb-Tide"  is  interesting  in  connection  with 
the  matter  of  realism  and  the  fallacies  of  the  cult.  The  realists 
might  claim  the  book,  but  they  would  have  a  merry  time  to  point 
any  essential  difference  between  it  and  "The  Master  of  Ballan- 
trae,"  which  they  would  reject.  And  a  distinction  that  can  be 
justified  only  when  applied  to  extreme  types — say  "Pride  and 
Prejudice"  and  "Frankenstein" — is  not  very  convincing. 


190  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

The 'novel,  then,  should  be  coherent  as  to  the  story 
it  embodies,  but  that  is  not  the  whole  of  its  peculiar 
technique.  The  story  itself  may  be  widely  inclusive, 
may,  in  a  way,  involve  a  number  of  stories.  The  novel- 
ist should  not  seek  deliberately  to  combine  the  unre- 
lated, but  he  need  not  follow  a  single  thread.  He  can 
turn  aside  into  bypaths  of  action  that  will  bring  out 
the  natures  of  his  people  with  more  fullness  than  the 
straight  course  of  the  story  itself,  and  he  can  involve 
his  minor  characters  in  sub-plots,  relatively  unimport- 
ant stories  of  their  own.  Generally,  the  novelist  will 
seek  to  develop  personality  with  greater  fullness  and 
detail  than  the  writer  of  the  short  story,  and,  as  a 
result,  the  action  of  the  novel  will  be  more  diffused 
and  looser,  less  pointed,  than  the  action  of  the  short 
story.  Or,  conversely,  the  long  story  necessarily  in- 
volves more  varied  action  than  the  briefer  form,  and 
therefore  develops  more  varied  traits  in  the  actors. 
Relative  to  the  short  story,  the  novel  is  a  natural  type 
of  fiction  in  that  it  can  make  some  approach  to  pre- 
senting the  whole  man,  with  all  his  contradictory  and 
inconsistent  traits  and  impulses;  relative  to  the  novel, 
the  short  story  is  an  artificial  type  of  fiction  in  that 
the  comparatively  direct  and  pointed  character  of  its 
action  forbids  that  it  develop  more  than  one  or  a  few 
significant  traits  of  personality.  The  writer  of  the 
short  story  cannot  qualify  and  distinguish  as  to  his 
people's  natures,  and  that  is  why  the  fine  short  story 
is  less  humanly  significant  than  the  fine  novel,  for  no 
man  is  pure  saint  or  pure  villain,  pure  this  or  pure 
that.  We  are  all  bewilderingly  inconsistent,  wherein 
lies  most  of  the  interest  of  life.  The  novel  can  show 
its  people  blown  here  and  there  by  the  winds  of  desire, 
as  in  life,  and  that  is  what  the  short  story  cannot  do. 

Each  story  is  a  rule  to  itself,  so  far  as  the  question 
of  scope  and  variety  of  action  is  concerned,  but  the 


THE  NOVEL  191 

novelist  will  derive  small  benefit  from  introducing  un- 
necessary people  and  unnecessary  events  merely  to  lend 
a  greater  illusion  of  movement  or  bustle  to  the  whole. 
Action,  in  fiction,  is  action  which  plays  a  necessary 
part  in  the  story,  and  the  novelist  should  not  inter- 
polate insignificant  events  any  more  than  he  should 
interpolate  his  own  opinions  on  life  and  morals.  His 
task  is  to  tell  some  particular  story,  no  more,  no  less. 

It  is  difficult  to  state  the  relative  inclusiveness  of 
the  novel  without  laying  a  false  emphasis  on  its  per- 
missible scope  and  variety  of  content,  for  the  novel 
should  be  exclusive  as  well  as  inclusive.  That  is,  it 
should  not  be  a  mere  welter  of  people  and  what  they  do, 
but  should  possess  some  single  human  significance, 
some  primary  reason  for  being,  by  which  its  writer 
can  test  the  availability  of  matter  that  suggests  itself 
to  him.  Between  the  conciseness  and  singleness  of 
"The  Ebb-Tide"  and  the  unnecessary  length  and  com- 
plexity of  some  of  the  Victorians  lies  a  golden  mean 
easier  to  recognize  in  specific  books  than  to  state  ab- 
stractedly. "The  Ebb-Tide,"  though  not  a  short  story 
in  point  of  length,  is  somewhat  brief,  and  it  is  a  short 
story  in  structure,  in  point  of  the  singleness  of  its 
story-idea,  the  small  number  of  its  characters,  and  the 
comparative  simplicity  of  its  action.  Of  course,  it  is 
none  the  less  a  fine  novel,  a  fine  long  story;  the  point 
is  that  there  are  thousands  of  other  stories,  equally 
fine,  perhaps  more  humanly  significant,  which  cannot 
be  written  so  concisely,  but  which  need  not  run  to  the 
length  of  "David  Copperfield,"  "The  Virginians,"  or 
"The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth."  To  attempt  to  set 
mechanical  limits  of  length  for  the  novel  would  be  mere 
silliness,  but  it  is  true  that  the  average  idea  for  a  long 
story  can  be  given  complete  and  adequate  expression 
in  one  or  two  hundred  thousand  words.  Usually  there 
is  no  need  to  write  at  much  greater  or  inordinate 


192  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

length,  unless  irrelevant  matter  is  introduced  for  its 
own  sake.  And  the  introduction  of  such  matter  for 
its  own  sake  can  only  hinder  the  effect  of  the  story 
itself  on  a  reader.  It  may  render  the  book,  the  mere 
sequence  of  words,  more  interesting,  but  irrelevant 
matter  cannot  render  the  story  itself  more  interesting. 
The  distinction  should  be  noted  and  realized,  for  the 
novelist's  aim  is  to  interest  through  his  story,  not 
merely  to  interest. 

There  is  another  way  to  approach  the  matter  of 
the  novel's  relative  inclusiveness  and  length,  perhaps 
a  better  way.  Where  the  novelist  first  conceives  his 
story  definitely  as  such,  as  a  course  of  events,  he  should 
bring  all  matter  which  suggests  itself  for  writing  to 
the  test  of  relation  to  the  story.  He  has  only  to  write 
the  story,  duly  elaborated,  and  thereby  he  will  take 
care  of  the  matters  of  length  and  complexity  and  in- 
clusiveness without  detached  calculation  to  that  end. 
But  if  the  novelist  finds  his  initial  idea  in  terms  of  a 
life  or  of  a  phase  of  society,  the  idea  does  not  plot  or 
diagram  the  whole  story  for  him.  He  has»  yet  to 
evolve  the  story  as  such,  and  he  may  devise  as  short 
and  simple  a  thing  as  "The  Ebb-Tide"  or  as  long  and 
complicated  a  thing  as  Tolstoi's  "War  and  Peace." 
Usually  it  will  be  found,  I  think,  that  the  very  long 
novel— "Tom  Jones,"  "Jean  Christophe,"  "David  Cop- 
perfield,"  "Anna  Karenina,"  "Les  Miserables,"  "The 
Virginians" — was  first  conceived  in  terms  of  a  life  or  a 
society,  rather  than  in  terms  of  a  definite  story.  It  is 
certainly  true  that  only  the  life  of  an  individual  or  the 
life  of  a  society  can  serve  to  bind  together  the  motley 
elements  of  a  very  long  novel,  giving  it  some  artistic 
coherence.  "David  Copperfield"  can  be  called  one  story 
in  that  it  consists  of  Copperfield's  life  and  related  mat- 
ters, but  "Our  Mutual  Friend"  is  in  no  sense  a  single 
story.  It  is  merely  a  number  of  stories  devised  to  be 
told  together  and  therefore  dovetailing  to  some  extent. 


THE  NOVEL  193 

It  all  comes  down  to  this :  if  the  novelist  conceives 
a  definite  story,  he  has  only  to  tell  it,  but  if  he  con- 
ceives a  life  or  a  society  he  has  yet  to  devise  his  story. 
And  the  matters  which  can  have  some  relation  to  a  life 
or  a  society  are  much  more  varied  than  those  which 
can  have  some  relation  to  a  course  of  events.  In  other 
words,  the  conception  of  a  story  as  such  limits  the 
writer's  choice  of  matter.  If  one  starts  with  a  story, 
one  can  tell  only  the  story.  If  one  starts  with  a  life  or 
a  society,  one  can  write  pretty  much  at  large. 

In  discussing  the  short  story,  it  was  possible  to 
state  that  it  must  embody  one  story-idea,  for  the 
physical  brevity  of  the  form  prohibits  adequate  de- 
velopment of  more  than  a  single  story.  But  if  I  stated 
that  the  novel  must  embody  one  story-idea,  no  more, 
no  less,  the  statement  would  be  false,  for  the  length 
of  the  form  is  practically  unlimited.  As  Dickens  did  in 
"Our  Mutual  Friend"  and  other  books,  the  novelist  can 
tell  together  three  or  four  unrelated  stories  if  he  so 
desires.  He  has  the  space.  The  question  is  not 
whether  he  can  but  whether  he  should  tell  more  than 
one.  The  answer  is  that  he  should  confine  himself  to 
one.  Perhaps  a  little  supporting  argument  is  called  for. 

The  most  obvious  criticism  of  this  limitation  upon 
the  novelist  is  that  it  savors  strongly  of  artificiality, 
rather  than  of  art.  The  reader  may  think  of  Dickens 
himself,  his  marvelous  people,  the  world  of  delight  in 
his  books.  But  Dickens,  it  may  be  said  with  all  rever- 
ence, was  no  story-teller.  His  is  a  fictional  world 
turned  upside  down.  His  stories  are  less  than  nothing ; 
his  major  characters  are  less  than  nothing;  but  his 
little  people  are  gods.  All  his  books  are  mere  card- 
board beside  the  works  of  such  a  one  as  Dostoievsky, 
but  in  each  book — with  a  few  exceptions — there  is  some 
stupendous  Weller  or  Micawber,  not  a  man,  but  a  god. 
One  goes  to  Dickens  almost  as  to  vaudeville,  and  "Pick- 
is 


194    '       THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

wick"  is  hrs  best  book  because  it  is  no  story.  In  it 
Weller  and  the  others  run  wild  unrestrained  by  the 
necessities  of  any  predetermined  course  of  events.  But 
a  story  is  a  predetermined  course  of  events,  actually  or 
in  effect,  and  the  mere  fact  that  Dickens  could  write 
poor  stories  and  yet  interest  by  his  wonderful  people 
does  not  falsify  the  technique  of  fiction. 

Again,  the  fact  that  the  novelist  should  confine 
himself  to  one  story  at  a  time  does  not  debar  him  from 
following  side-issues,  provided  they  have  relation  to 
the  main  course  of  events,  or  from  creating  minor 
people  like  Dickens',  if  he  has  the  power.  Dickens 
could  have  placed  his  people  in  real  stories  instead  of 
in  the  weak  fictions  they  serve  to  ennoble. 

Finally,  I  will  state  abstractly  the  conditions  from 
which  result  the  artistic,  not  the  physical  necessity 
that  the  novelist  confine  himself  in  each  book  to  a 
single  story-idea. 

The  aim  to  interest  is  the  aim  of  fiction,  long  and 
short,  and  the  body  of  a  writer's  resources  to  accom- 
plish the  aim  make  up  the  body  of  fiction  technique. 
But  the  aim  of  the  writer  of  plotted  fiction  is  not  simply 
to  interest;  it  is  to  interest  through  a  story,  a  course 
of  events  functioning  together  in  that  they  embody 
some  sort  of  problem.  Leaving  aside  the  matter  of 
executive  artistry,  and  premising  that  the  writer  will 
realize  to  the  full  the  possibilities  of  his  story,  it  is 
accurate  to  state  that  the  interest  a  story  will  arouse 
will  be  in  accordance  with  the  human  significance  of 
the  problem  it  embodies.  Adequate  fictional  treatment 
of  the  problem  to  win  love  or  to  make  a  living 
will  be  more  interesting  than  adequate  fictional  treat- 
ment of  the  problem  to  escape  payment  of  an 
income  tax.  And  the  possibilities  of  any  problem  of 
life  to  arouse  a  reader's  interest  can  be  realized 
to  the  full  only  by  setting  out  that  problem 


THE  NOVEL  195 

and  nothing  else.  Only  by  showing  the  thing  in  isola- 
tion and  high  relief  can  the  writer  reveal  to,  and  force 
home  upon  a  reader  its  ultimate  significance.  If  any- 
thing unrelated  to  the  story  or  problem  is  brought  out, 
something  of  the  power  of  the  story  as  such  will  be 
lost.  Likewise,  if  two  or  more  stories  or  problems  are 
each  completely  developed  in  one  book,  neither  will 
have  that  singleness  of  appeal  to  a  reader  which  is  es- 
sential if  each  is  to  have  maximum  effect. 

In  other  words,  a  novel  does  not  function  as  a  mere 
physical  spectacle ;  being  a  story,  it  must  have  a  motive, 
an  artistic  purpose ;  and  if  it  has  more  than  one  it  will 
be  at  cross  purposes  as  a  work  of  art.  That  is  not  a 
mere  "artistic"  defect.  It  is  a  practical  defect  in  that 
motive,  purpose,  and  story  will  not  have  extreme 
effect.  Nor  is  it  to  say  that  the  novel  may  not  be  very 
complicated  as  to  any  or  all  of  its  three  elements  of 
people,  events,  and  setting.  "Anna  Karenina"  is  com- 
plicated enough,  in  all  conscience,  but  every  item  of  the 
novel  has  relation  to  its  one  story  either  in  that  it 
serves  directly  to  develop  the  horrible  tragedy  of 
Anna's  life  or  in  that  it  forwards  the  presentment  of 
the  society  which  she  renounced. 

The  painter  cannot  put  two  different  pictures  side 
by  side  on  the  same  canvas  without  hampering  the 
effect  of  each;  still  less  can  he  commingle  the  two. 
The  architect  cannot  build  on  two  designs  at  once.  Nor 
can  the  novelist — if  he  would  have  each  story  realize 
to  the  full  its  inherent  capacity  to  interest—combine 
different  stories  in  the  same  book.  He  can  develop 
personality  in  great  detail;  he  can  follow  by-paths  of 
action;  he  can  involve  his  minor  characters  in  sub- 
plots ;  but  the  main  course  of  the  story  must  be  single, 
not  duplicate  or  triplicate,  that  the  whole  may  have 
point  and  significance. 

The  reader  will  observe  that  this  book  lays  abso- 


196  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

lutely  no  restrictions  on  the  conceptive  faculty.  It 
preaches  that  the  way  to  write  fiction  is  to  look  for 
a  story,  and,  when  it  is  found,  to  write  it  so  as  to  give 
it  full  effect.  It  may  be  a  short  story;  it  may  be  a 
novel.  It  may  have  its  genesis  in  a  dream,  in  a  life,  in 
a  situation,  in  a  society.  But,  whatever  its  nature, 
whatever  its  length,  its  effect  on,  its  interest  for,  a 
reader,  can  result  only  from  itself.  The  story  as  such 
cannot  be  fortified  by  the  introduction  of  foreign  mat- 
ter, although  the  interest  of  the  writer's  text  as  a 
mere  sequence  of  words  may  be  heightened  thereby. 
But  the  aim  of  the  writer  of  novel  or  short  story  is  to 
interest  through  his  story  as  such,  not  merely  to  inter- 
est. A  newspaper  is  interesting,  yet  a  newspaper  is 
not  a  story,  however  much  fiction  it  may  embody. 

The  novel  or  long  story  is  apt  to  have  a  strong 
social  emphasis  simply  because  the  interplay  of  society 
and  the  conflict  of  its  members  supply  much  more 
material  for  stories  than  the  more  isolated  phases  of 
human  life.  The  novelist  is  under  no  obligation  to  re- 
produce a  social  spectacle  in  each  book,  but  more  often 
than  not  he  will  find  that  he  must  do  so  to  bring  out 
the  full  value  of  his  conception.  It  follows  that  he  will 
do  well  to  go  about  with  an  observant  eye,  for  it  is  the 
little  details  of  the  novel  of  manners  that  lend  verisi- 
militude to  the  whole.  And  such  matters  cannot  be 
invented ;  they  must  have  been  observed ;  for  a  reader 
knows  them  whether  or  not  the  writer  does  too. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
CONCLUSION 

Story  and  Tale — Realism  the  Method — Realism  the  Dogma — 
Philosophy  of  Fiction — Interest — Power  of  the  Real  Prob- 
lems of  Life — Test  of  Merit — Aim  of  Executive  Artistry — 
Verisimilitude — Ultimate  Artistic  Significance  of  Plot. 

The  purpose  of  this  book  has  been  to  shed  a  little 
light  on  the  essential  technical  processes  of  the  art  of 
fiction ;  to  state  a  general  philosophy  of  fiction  has  not 
been  my  aim.  Accordingly,  the  text  touches  only  in- 
cidentally upon  the  fundamental  types  of  fiction  and  a 
writer's  fundamental  purposes  in  adopting  any  one  of 
them  as  a  medium  for  expression  of  himself  or  his  con- 
ceptions. Partly  to  justify  some  of  the  text,  and  partly 
because  it  may  prove  of  practical  service,  I  shall  state 
briefly  a  general  theory  or  philosophy  of  fiction — not 
my  theory,  merely,  nor  that  of  anyone  else,  but  simply 
the  theory  which  is  implied  in  the  content  and  aim  of 
the  art  itself. 

The  content  of  fiction  is  man  and  what  he  may 
experience,  in  body,  mind,  and  soul;  the  aim  of  fiction 
is  to  interest.  Certain  results  follow,  but  before 
stating  them  it  will  be  well  to  clear  the  way  a  little. 

I  have  stated  that  a  story  is  a  fiction  with  a  plot, 
and  have  defined  a  plot  as  a  dramatic  problem,  that  is, 
a  course  of  events  which  function  together  as  a  whole 
in  that  they  influence  and  are  influenced  by  character 

197 


198  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

or  personality.  And  nine-tenths  of  the  technique  of 
fiction  is  concerned  with  the  object  to  develop  a  plot. 
To  develop  a  tale,  a  fiction,  long  or  short,  without  a 
plot,  only  direct  narrative  and  descriptive  writing  is 
requisite;  it  is  the  plot-element  of  a  fiction,  with  all 
its  implications  as  to  personality,  that  forces  the  writer 
of  a  story — a  fiction  with  a  plot — to  weave  together 
cunningly  each  strand  of  his  matter,  narrative,  exposi- 
tion, dialogue,  description,  that  the  whole  pattern  may 
show  fictionally  real  people  doing  in  a  fictionally  real 
world  what  one  might  naturally  expect  from  their 
natures  and  the  circumstances  of  their  lives.  The  task 
is  infinitely  more  difficult  and  delicate  than  to  take  a 
Sinbad  the  Sailor  or  a  Cinderella  through  a  course  of 
happenings  without  essential  relation  to  the  nature  of 
either  person,  who  is,  in  each  case,  a  mere  human  focal 
point  for  the  events  to  be  precipitated  upon.  According- 
ly, this  book  concentrates  upon  the  fiction  of  plot,  or 
story,  rather  than  the  fiction  without  plot,  or  tale. 
The  technique  of  the  fiction  of  plot  comprehends  and 
includes  the  technique  of  the  tale,  which  could  be 
ignored  here  without  loss. 

Whether  or  not  a  fiction  possess  a  plot,  and  is  a 
story,  or  lacks  a  plot,  and  is  a  tale,  it  will  be  concerned 
with  people  and  what  they  do,  the  man  and  his  acts. 
Long  or  short,  a  fiction  must  deal  with  man,  at  least 
with  personality,  as  do  London's  "The  Call  of  the 
Wild"  and  Kipling's  "The  Ship  That  Found  Herself." 
Since  fiction  deals  with  man,  it  deals  both  with 
physical  and  spiritual  facts,  with  the  facts  of  the  soul 
and  the  more  tangible  things  of  the  body  and  the  earth. 
It  results  that  either  the  spiritual  or  physical  element 
of  any  fiction  may  largely  outweigh  the  other,  at  least, 
preponderate  over  it.  That  is,  the  long  story  may 
be  what  is  known  as  a  novel  or  what  is  known  as  a 


CONCLUSION  199 

romance,  and  the  brief  story  may  reveal  the  fate  of  the 
spirit  rather  than  the  fate  of  the  body  and  mind.* 

Precisely  at  this  point  one  encounters  a  difficulty 
raised  by  critical  comment  on  fiction,  the  whole  com- 
plex of  obscurantism  about  "realism"  and  "roman- 
ticism." Instead  of  wasting  space  in  trying  to  un- 
ravel the  threads  of  the  tangle  as  stated  by  those  who 
have  knotted  it,  it  will  be  much  easier  and  much  more 
profitable  to  state  a  few  facts  that  will  demonstrate 
the  essential  fallacy  of  such  discussion. 

In  the  first  place,  realism  characterizes  a 
method,  one  that  might  better  be  called  the  method  of 
stating  the  concrete  in  detail.  If  a  story  is  concerned 
largely  with  the  more  common  actualities  of  everyday 
life,  it  is  possible  that  its  writer  may  best  create  his 
illusion  of  reality  by  itemizing  the  physical  facts  in 
some  detail, 

In  the  second  place,  "realism"  has  been  elevated 
from  a  mere  technical  method  into  an  artistic  creed  or 
dogma.  The  assumption  is  made  that  only  the  more 
tangible  matters  of  life  are  realities,  and  that  fiction 
should  seek  to  present  only  the  real. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  do  more  than  state  that  the 
first  term  of  this  assumption  is  false.  Not  only  are 
there  facts  of  the  spkit  as  well  as  facts  of  the  body 
and  the  phenomenal  universe,  but  the  spiritual  fact  is 
precisely  the  fact  which  is  fictionally  significant.  Fic- 
tion deals  with  man  for  man,  and  man  is  man  just 
and  only  because  he  has  an  intelligence  and  a  soul, 
enabling  him  to  impose  his  will  upon  brute  matter  and 
to  rise  superior  to  evil  fortune. 

The  second  term  of  the  realists'  assumption  is  that 
fiction  should  present  only  the  real.  And  the  essential 
*  In  a  sense,  the  mind  is  of  the  body  rather  than  of  the  soul, 
where  it  functions  in  the  common  business  of  life. 


200  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

fallacy  of  the  assumption  is  this:  it  ignores  the  fact 
that  the  first  aim  of  fiction  is  to  interest.  Philosophy, 
not  fiction,  must  give  us  a  test  of  truth  and  reality. 
Irrespective  of  what  is  real — a  question  that  the  con- 
firmed realist  answers  falsely,  because  partially  and 
exclusively — one  who  denies  the  reality  and  signifi- 
cance of  the  spiritual  life  of  man,  and  therefore  refuses 
to  give  it  fictional  treatment,  debars  himself  from  pre- 
senting much  interesting  matter. 

It  might  not  be  too  dull,  incidentally,  to  go  into  the 
question  of  how  much  the  world  of  the  spirit  shall  be 
allowed  to  impose  its  necessities  on  the  world  of  the 
flesh,  but  the  matter  is  subordinate,  part  of  the  general 
question  of  verisimilitude.  Frequently,  to  give  con- 
crete fictional  treatment  to  a  fact  of  the  soul,  the 
writer  will  have  to  falsify  deliberately  as  to  physical 
facts,  as  Stevenson  did  in  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde." 

Realism,  the  technical  method  expanded  into  an 
artistic  dogma,  has  much  to  answer  for.  In  the  hands 
of  the  French,  it  has  been  responsible  for  much  that  is 
uselessly  unpleasant  and  brutal;  in  the  hands  of  Eng- 
lish and  American  writers,  it  has  been  responsible 
for  much  dullness.  The  unpleasant  facts  and  petty 
concerns  of  life  alike  are  significant  only  in  relation  to 
the  persons  they  affect;  in  themselves,  they  are  dreary 
or  repellent  items.  If  the  ugly  fact  has  no  relation 
to  the  story  as  such,  it  should  not  be  given  place;  if 
the  commonplace  detail  has  no  relation  to  the  course 
of  the  story,  and  will  perform  no  office  in  lending  reality 
to  the  fiction  in  a  reader's  eyes,  it  should  not  be  tran- 
scribed. 

The  misconceptions  that  cluster  about  realism  the 
dogma  affect  adversely  both  the  writer  of  long  fiction 
and  the  writer  of  short  fiction.  But  the  writer  of  short 
fiction,  if  he  has  read  even  a  little  critical  comment  in 
an  endeavor  to  inform  himself  of  the  essential  nature 


CONCLUSION  201 

of  his  art,  will  have  been  confused  and  misdirected  by 
the  eternal  quarrel  over  the  short  story,  what  it  is, 
whether  it  is  a  distinct  literary  form,  its  totality  or 
unity  of  effect,  and  so  forth.  I  have  said  much  on  this 
head  in  discussing  the  short  story,  and  shall  not  repeat 
the  argument  here.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  short 
story  most  certainly  is  a  distinct  literary  form,  in  that 
it  is  brief  enough  to  be  read  at  one  sitting  and  em- 
bodies a  plot  or  dramatic  problem,  which  is  not  true 
of  the  tale.  But  its  distinction  from  other  forms  of 
fiction,  plotted  and  unplotted  alike,  does  not  lie  in  its 
totality  or  unity  of  effect,  except  in  the  case  of  the 
short  story  of  atmosphere.  The  dramatic  short  story, 
whether  it  stresses  character  or  the  event,  differs  from 
the  novel  or  romance  not  in  that  it  possesses  a  plot — 
so  do  the  longer  types — but  in  that  it  is  brief.  And  it 
differs  from  the  tale — which  also  is  brief — in  that  it 
possesses  a  plot.  The  short  story  of  atmosphere  is  ab- 
normal, and  a  type  in  itself. 

As  was  stated  in  the  chapter  on  the  short  story, 
the  only  sense  in  which  the  dramatic  short  story  can 
be  said  to  possess  unity  is  purely  verbal.  As  a  mere 
sequence  of  words,  it  possesses  unity  in  that  each  word 
is  essential  to  the  story.  That  is  not  to  say  that  the 
matter  of  the  story,  its  people,  situations,  and  settings, 
is  "unified,"  whatever  the  word  may  mean  so  applied. 
The  form  is  verbally  coherent,  but  not  necessarily 
coherent  in  substance,  except  that  it  embodies  one 
plot-  or  story-idea,  no  more,  no  less.  The  one  story- 
idea  may  involve  great  diversity  in  its  three  elements 
of  people,  events,  and  setting.  It  would  not  be  worth 
while  to  discuss  the  general  false  emphasis  upon  the 
unity  of  the  short  story  were  it  not  for  the  strong  ten- 
dency of  such  discussion  to  lead  the  writer  to  devise 
stories  too  simple  really  to  interest,  apart  from  the 
appeal  to  their  characters. 


202  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  question  of  realism  and 
the  question  of  the  dramatic  short  story's  assumed 
unity  of  substance  are  the  two  pitfalls  into  which  the 
feet  of  the  writer  of  fiction  who  reads  the  mass  of 
comment  on  his  art  are  most  apt  to  stray.  It  is  diffi- 
cult enough  to  find  an  interesting  story  without  having 
one  eye  blinded  by  a  false  artistic  philosophy.  Gener- 
ally, in  reading  critical  comment  on  specific  stories 
and  authors  and  on  the  art  of  fiction,  the  writer  of 
fiction  will  do  well  to  remember  that  such  matter  is 
written  for  the  general  reader,  not  for  the  practitioner 
of  the  art,  and  that  the  poor  critic  must  say  something ! 
He  cannot  discuss  technique,  for  he  would  be  both  dull 
and  unintelligible  to  the  general  reader.  So  he  says 
what  he  does. 

It  remains  to  state  a  true  artistic  philosophy  for 
the  writer  of  fiction,  that  philosophy  which  is  implied 
in  the  content  and  aim  of  the  art  of  fiction  itself.  The 
content  of  fiction  is  man  and  what  he  possibly  or  con- 
ceivably may  experience ;  the  aim  of  fiction  is  to  inter- 
est. It  would  be  more  accurate  to  state  that  the 
content  of  fiction  is  personality  and  what  it  may  ex- 
perience— witness  any  animal  story,  or  Kipling's  story 
of  a  steamship,  cited  above — but  fiction  deals  so  ex- 
clusively with  man  that  the  first  statement  may  stand. 

Since  the  content  of  fiction  is  man  and  what  he 
possibly  or  conceivably  may  experience,  the  writer  of 
fiction  is  at  liberty  to  go  to  fairyland  or  South  Boston, 
to  heaven,  hell,  or  the  stock-exchange,  for  the  material 
lor  his  story.  He  is  subject  to  no  limitations,  for 
whatever  he  can  conceive  is  open  to  his  use.  If  he  does 
choose  to  leave  the  homely  earth,  however,  he  cannot 
return  until  he  has  finished  the  story.  If  his  story 
moves  in  a  fairy  world  subject  only  to  physical  laws  of 
its  own,  such  basic  conditions  of  the  story  must  con- 
tinue to  operate.  But  that  is  a  matter  of  achieving  the 


CONCLUSION  20.: 

to  interest  rather  than  a  matter  of  content  of 
telling  the  story  so  that  it  win  seem  real  even  though 
it  is  unbelievable. 

The  reader  wffl  note  that  the  content  of  fiction 
gives  him  opportunity  to  write  so  terrifically  "realistic" 
a  thing  as  Dostoievsky's  "House  of  the  Dead,"  so 
nobly  "romantic"  a  thing  as  Hawthorne's  "Scarlet  Let- 
ter," or  so  finely  fantastic  a  thing  as  Carroll's  "Alice  in 
Wonderland,"  The  sole  limitation  upon  his  work  is 
his  own  conceptive  and  executive  power,  unless  he 
foolishly  subjects  himself  to  the  bondage  of  some 
special  school.  As  time  goes  on,  his  own  essential  bent 
of  mind  and  heart  will  gradually  reveal  to  him  the  sort 
of  matter  he  can  handle  best. 

The  influence  upon  the  fiction  writer's  philosophy 
of  the  aim  and  necessity  to  interest  may  now  be  dis- 


An  important  point  is  that  there  are  degrees  of 
interest.  A  strongly  novel  course  of  events  will  catch 
and  hold  a  reader's  interest,  but  the  interest  aroused 
by  a  fiction  presenting  a  novel  course  of  events  and 
nothing  else  is  not  quite  the  same  thing  as  the  interest 
aroused  by  a  story  which  shows  real  men  and  women 
meeting  the  real  problems  of  life,  material  or  spiritual. 
The  interest  aroused  by  mere  novelty  is  a  matter 
largely  of  the  intelligence;  it  tends  to  be  evanescent 
because  it  has  little  or  no  relation  to  the  emotional 
nature.  On  the  other  hand,  the  other  sort  of  interest, 
that  aroused  by  the  spectacle  of  real  men  and  women 
meeting  the  real  problems  of  life,  is  deepened  and 
intensified  by  the  emotional  element  of  sympathy  and 
hate  for  lovable  and  hateful  people.  And  the  real, 
though  perhaps  intrinsically  simple  problems  of  life — 
to  make  a  living,  win  love,  overcome  temptation — are 
precisely  the  problems  which  are  humanly  significant 
because  universally  experienced.  Hie  story  which 


204  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

shows  real  people  struggling  with  such  a  problem  will 
have  a  keener  interest  for  a  reader  through  his 
familiarity  with  its  matter  in  personal  experience. 
Such  a  story  appeals  to  the  emotions  both  through  its 
people  and  through  its  theme. 

This  matter  is  well  worth  dwelling  upon,  for,  apart 
from  merit  in  point  of  executive  artistry,  the  only 
standard  whereby  a  story  can  be  estimated  as  rela- 
tively significant  or  relatively  insignificant  is  the 
standard  of  interest,  that  is,  interest  for  the  ideal 
reader,  the  reader  of  open  and  able  mind  and  sympa- 
thetic heart.  The  aim  of  fiction  is  to  interest,  and  the 
story  which  most  deeply  interests  most  completely 
fulfils  the  ideals  of  the  art.  "Les  Miserables"  is  a 
greater  book  than  any  one  of  Jules  Verne's  mechanical 
romances,  not  because  it  is  better  written,  and  not 
because  it  is  a  terrific  indictment  of  society — as  a 
modern  reviewer  might  put  it — but  simply  because  its 
people  and  matter  generally  arouse  the  most  poignant 
emotional  and  intellectual  interest  in  a  reader  qualified 
to  feel  its  power.  The  interest  aroused  by  Verne's 
sort  of  story — H.  G.  Wells'  earlier  work  and  Conan 
Doyle's  "The  Lost  World"  are  more  recent  examples — 
is  real,  but  almost  exclusively  intellectual,  therefore 
relatively  weak  and  evanescent.  Books  such  as  "Les 
Miserables"  cannot  be  forgotten;  the  details  of  the 
story  may  vanish  from  the  mind  with  time;  but  a 
reader  will  retain  through  life  the  memory  of  the  book's 
power,  the  memory  of  the  eagerness  with  which  he 
followed  the  fortunes  of  its  people. 

Between  masterpieces  that  will  incorporate  their 
essence  and  memory  with  a  reader's  very  life — books 
such  as  "Les  Miserables"  and  "The  Scarlet  Letter,"  to 
name  together  the  utterly  dissimilar — and  stories  that 
can  serve  only  to  while  away  an  idle  hour  or  two, 
there  are  fictions  of  every  sort  and  condition,  the 


CONCLUSION  205 

product  of  all  sorts  of  aims  and  philosophies,  artistic 
and  moral.  Apart  from  the  matter  of  executive  artis- 
try, each  must  take  rank  as  relatively  good  or  relatively 
feeble  in  accordance  with  its  power  to  evoke  interest. 
Some — as  the  detective  story  or  any  story  of  ratiocina- 
tion— have  in  high  degree  the  power  to  call  forth  a 
reader's  intellectual  interest;  some — as  the  fictional 
comedy  of  manners — may  interest  slightly  the  mind 
through  their  plot  and  the  heart  through  their  people ; 
but  each  is  significant  as  a  fiction  solely  by  virtue  of 
its  power  to  enthrall  a  reader  of  open  mind  and  sym- 
pathetic heart. 

If  the  power  to  interest  the  ideal  reader  is  the  sole 
test  of  a  story's  merit  as  a  fiction — and  no  other  test 
can  withstand  examination  even  for  a  moment — it  in- 
evitably follows  that  to  be  a  masterpiece  a  story,  long  or 
short,  must  show  fictionally  re"al  men  and  women 
coping  with  the  material  and  spiritual  problems  of  our 
common  human  destiny.  No  other  matter  can  arouse 
the  deepest  and  most  abiding  interest  in  a  reader. 
However  perfect  a  writer's  technique,  if  he  chooses  to 
write  of  physical  or  spiritual  matters  that  are  relatively 
trivial  and  insignificant,  he  cannot  hope  to  do  the  finest 
work.  Of  course,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the 
writer  of  fiction  rests  under  no  moral  or  artistic  obliga- 
tion to  attempt  a  masterpiece  in  each  story  he  under- 
takes. He  is  under  obligation  to  attempt  to  interest 
in  some  degree. 

Thus  far,  in  discussing  the  influence  upon  the  fic- 
tion writer's  philosophy  of  the  aim  and  necessity  that 
fiction  interest,  emphasis  has  been  laid  upon  the  ques- 
tion of  matter.  But  from  the  aim  and  necessity  results 
the  whole  executive  technique. 

The  general  proposition  is  that  significant  matter 
cannot  arouse  a  reader's  deepest  interest  unless  it  is 
presented  to  him  effectively,  nor  can  relatively  insignifi- 


206  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

cant  matter  arouse  whatever  interest  is  attainable  by 
it  unless  it  also  is  presented  effectively.  The  writer 
of  a  story  must  seek  to  invest  it  with  reality  in  the 
eyes  of  a  reader,  and  his  resources  to  perform  this 
difficult  task  make  up  the  body  of  the  technique  of 
fiction. 

It  follows  that  the  best  story  in  point  of  executive 
artistry  is  the  story  which  realizes  most  fully  the 
inherent  capacity  of  its  matter  to  interest.  However 
significant  the  content  of  a  story,  if  the  writer's  hand 
falter  in  execution,  something  of  the  fiction's  appeal 
for  a  reader  will  be  lost. 

The  general  aim  of  executive  artistry  or  technique 
is  to  invest  the  story  with  such  reality  that  a  reader 
will  himself  see  so  much  of  the  thing  as  is  physical 
and  feel  so  much  of  it  as  is  emotional  or  spiritual,  for 
only  thus  can  be  evoked  the  full  measure  of  interest 
inherent  in  the  matter.  Unless  the  writer's  words  con- 
stitute in  themselves  a  primary  spectacle  and  experi- 
ence for  a  reader,  instead  of  a  mere  secondary  relation, 
the  story  cannot  have  full  effect.  A  reader  will  not 
accept  the  mere  say-so  of  the  writer,  who  must  spread 
upon  his  page  the  very  stuff  of  life  itself,  rather  than 
mere  words. 

How  difficult  the  task,  it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell 
upon,  but  one  thing  should  be  noted.  This  necessary 
power  to  precipitate  reality,  this  literary  power,  only 
infrequently  involves  writing  in  a  "literary"  manner  or 
style.  The  essence  of  literary  power  is  to  present  the 
particular  matter  fittingly,  not  artificially.  If  the  par- 
ticular story  concerns  simple,  everyday  people  and 
simple,  everyday  events,  it  should  be  told  in  simple, 
everyday  language,  for  such  language  will  serve  best  to 
precipitate  the  matter  for  a  reader.  Literary  power 
is  the  power  to  adapt  the  word  to  the  matter,  not  the 
power  of  "fine"  writing.  Some  stories  call  for  little 


CONCLUSION  207 

verbal  elaboration,  while  such  a  thing  as  "The  Fall  of 
the  House  of  Usher"  exhausts  the  capacities  of  lan- 
guage, but  whatever  the  nature  of  any  story,  its 
writer's  artistry  and  technical  capacity  are  measurable 
by  the  degree  in  which  he  succeeds  in  endowing  it  with 
reality  and  verisimilitude,  not  by  the  verbal  noise  and 
agility  he  makes  and  displays. 

Verisimilitude,  of  course,  is  a  relative  term.  The 
matter  of  the  story  of  everyday  life  is  essentially  tangi- 
ble and  concrete,  and  its  writer  can  invest  it  with 
tangibility  and  concreteness  in  a  degree  higher  than  is 
attainable  by  the  writer  who  deals  with  fantasies  and 
dreams.  The  measure  of  verisimilitude  attainable  by 
any  story  is  limited  by  its  content.  If  it  deals  with 
fine-spun  fancies,  it  cannot  attain  the  hearty  solidity 
of  the  story  that  deals  with  the  matter  of  fact.  No 
writer  can  do  more  than  precipitate  his  conception  in 
his  words;  if  the  conception  itself  is  essentially  airy 
and  impalpable,  so  must  the  story  be  airy  and  impal- 
pable. In  fact,  the  perfect  fictional  illusion  is  that 
which  most  nearly  produces  on  a  reader  the  exact  im- 
pression the  matter  would  produce  if  actually  experi- 
enced. If  a  story  is  strictly  unbelievable — of  course 
any  story  is  conceivable,  or  it  would  not  have  been 
written — the  writer  can  do  no  more  than  create  an 
illusion  of  fictional  verity,  not  of  literal  verity.  That 
is,  a  reader  will  accept  the  author's  basic  assumptions 
and  the  whole  story  as  well,  if  it  is  developed  logically 
from  the  assumptions.  Any  fairy  tale  is  an  instance 
of  what  is  meant. 

I  will  mention  briefly  one  other  consequence  of  the 
aim  and  necessity  that  fiction  interest.  Usually  the 
story,  or  fiction  embodying  a  plot,  will  interest  more 
deeply  than  the  mere  tale.  Therefore  the  writer  of 
fiction  usually  will  choose  to  write  stories  rather  than 
tales.  The  bare  fact  is  that  the  highest  type  of  fiction, 


208  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

the  fiction  of  greatest  power  over  a  reader  through  its 
human  significance,  is  adequately  plotted  simply  be- 
cause it  does  show  real  people  meeting  a  real  problem 
of  life. 

At  this  point  becomes  apparent  how  much  that 
grossly  abused  word  "plot"  stands  for.  Broadly,  a  plot 
is  a  dramatic  problem,  and  a  dramatic  problem  results 
from  the  opposition  of  man  and  man,  the  opposition 
of  man  and  nature,  or  conflict  within  a  single  man.  The 
element  of  mere  complication  is  not  essential  to  a  plot, 
not  being  essential  to  a  dramatic  problem.  "Dramatic 
situation"  is  perhaps  a  better  term  than  "plot,"  for  it 
has  none  of  the  associations  of  complication  that  cling 
to  the  latter.  Even  "dramatic  situation"  is  objection- 
able, because  it  has  connotations  of  the  stage,  and  sug- 
gests an  acuteness  and  tensity,  a  general  brevity  and 
pitch  of  struggle  that  is  not  essential  to  fiction. 
"Robinson  Crusoe,"  for  instance,  though  not  very  tense, 
is  adequately  plotted;  it  shows  man's  struggle  for 
bread,  shelter,  and  raiment.  "Don  Quixote"  is  ade- 
quately plotted;  it  shows  man  in  the  grip  of  a  dream, 
and  so  at  odds  with  all  the  world.*  As  stated,  all  great 
fiction  is  adequately  plotted  simply  because  it  shows 
real  people  faced  by  the  real  problems  of  life.  The  plot 
of  a  story  of  worth  stands  for  its  author's  effort  to 
isolate  one  of  life's  significant  elements  or  problems, 
and,  by  showing  it  in  high  relief,  to  invest  it  with  that 
certain  dignity  and  momentousness,  as  of  life  raised  to 
a  high  power,  whereby  a  reader  may  be  laid  under  a 
spell  more  absolute  than  any  to  which  the  confused 
and  shifting  spectacle  of  life  itself  can  subject  him.  In 
the  last  analysis,  great  fiction  does  more  than  to  inter- 
est; it  whispers  to  a  reader  of  the  significance  and 
worth  of  human  life,  and  heartens  him  to  live  his  own. 
*  Dostoievsky's  "The  Idiot"  should  be  compared  with  "Don 
Quixote,"  for  the  fundamental  theme  of  each  book  is  the  same. 


APPENDIX 


14 


APPENDIX  A 

SUGGESTIONS  FOR  THE  STUDENT 

It  is  surely  obvious  that  the  only  way  to  learn  how 
to  write  is — to  write.  The  only  way  to  learn  how  to  do 
anything  is  to  try  until  the  secret  is  conquered,  and 
the  more  difficult  the  feat  or  art  the  longer  must  be 
the  apprenticeship. 

Stepping  from  abstract  study  of  technique  to  the 
actual  writing  of  a  story  is  a  violent  transition.  The 
student  has  only  a  very  general  knowledge,  and  now  he 
must  give  it  narrowly  specific  application.  He  has  read 
a  brief  discussion  of  the  mechanics  of  the  art  of  de- 
scribing a  person,  for  instance,  has  read  Stevenson's 
description  of  Villon  and  his  fellows;  now  he  himself 
must  write  a  description  of  Napoleon  or  Lizzie  Smith 
or  John  Arthur  McAllister ;  and  he  desires  to  write  as 
well  as  Stevenson. 

The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  go  at  the  task  patiently 
and  with  courage.  Put  the  best  of  you  at  the  moment 
into  each  thing  you  undertake,  but  do  not  expect  each 
single  item  of  your  work  to  show  an  appreciable  ad- 
vance, and  do  not  be  discouraged  if  each  thing  you  do 
seems  as  poor  or  no  better  than  what  has  gone  before. 
Your,  first,  second,  tenth,  or  fifteenth  story  may  be 
patent  trash,  in  point  of  execution,  but  never  mind. 
After  a  year  or  so  of  intelligent  and  directed  writing 
the  results  of  your  study  and  application  of  technique 
will  begin  to  appear.  It  is  impossible  that  they  should 

211 


212  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

show  themselves  at  once,  for  technical  study  will 
cramp  and  constrain  you  until  you  have  gained  some 
real  facility  in  writing  in  accordance  with  the  canons 
of  art.  That  is  true  of  all  arts,  of  course.  No  tool  can 
be  used  properly  without  practice. 

Perhaps  you  may  desire  to  submit  your  practice 
work  to  magazines  and  publishers  as  you  go  along,  and 
if  you  mean  to  have  a  serious  try  at  the  game  it  is 
advisable  that  you  do  so.  The  fact  that  you  are  writ- 
ing for  submission  will  serve  as  a  stimulus ;  you  will  re- 
ceive helpful  incidental  criticisms  from  editors,  if  your 
work  shows  promise ;  and,  above  all,  you  will  gradually 
acquire  the  necessary  knowledge  of  the  market,  its 
needs,  tendencies,  and  desires.  However,  I  do  not 
believe  it  advisable  for  one  who  is  trying  to  learn  to 
write  to  ape  deliberately  the  tone  of  particular  maga- 
zines, with  an  eye  to  possible  sales.  That  is  a  trick  of 
the  trade — and  permissible  enough — but  it  is  no  way 
to  learn  to  write  fiction.  The  skilled  hand  can  direct 
his  efforts  so,  but  the  apprentice  had  better  center  his 
efforts  upon  finding  some  good  story  and  upon  writing 
it  to  the  best  he  knows  how. 

A  few  specific  bits  of  advice  as  to  how  to  go  about 
practicing  the  art  of  fiction  may  not  be  useless.  Tech- 
nique is  conceptive,  constructive,  and  executive,  and  the 
beginner  should  exercise  his  latent  powers  in  each  de- 
partment. 

The  technique  of  conception  is  practiced  uncon- 
sciously by  anyone  who  seeks  to  find  a  story  for  writ- 
ing, but  exercise  of  the  conceptive  faculty  should  not 
be  limited  to  the  times  when  you  desire  actually  to 
write.  You  should  form  a  habit  of  thinking  creatively, 
of  mentally  shaping  into  stories  the  material  offered 
by  observation,  thought,  and  reading.  If  this  is  done, 
and  notes  kept  of  your  promising  ideas,  you  will  have 
or  hand  constantly  considerable  amount  of  material, 


APPENDIX  213 

and  you  will  not  be  forced  to  waste  time  in  casting 
about  for  an  idea  when  the  spirit  moves  you  to  write. 
Moreover,  I  think  most  essentially  feeble  stories  are 
stories  conceived  and  thrown  together  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment  as  the  writer  sits  and  looks  at  a  sheet  of 
white  paper,  and  if  you  have  five,  ten,  or  a  hundred 
stories  more  or  less  completely  blocked  out  in  your 
files  or  in  your  mind,  you  can  choose  for  writing  one 
fitted  to  your  mood  and  also  worth  the  writing.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  judge  the  worth  of  an  idea  im- 
mediately after  it  is  conceived ;  by  separating  the  con- 
ceptive  and  executive  processes  you  will  be  led  to  avoid 
much  waste  labor  in  developing  what  is  essentially 
weak. 

A  more  mechanical  exercise  of  the  conceptive 
faculty,  but  a  very  valuable  one,  is  to  shape  and  re- 
shape what  I  will  term  abstract  stories.  As  stated,  a 
story  or  plot  is  a  dramatic  conflict,  showing  the  opposi- 
tion of  man  and  nature,  man  and  man,  or  opposed  traits 
in  the  same  man.  The  process  of  developing  an  ab- 
stract story  is  to  select  from  a  list  of  human  traits  and 
motives  two  or  more  which  present  an  essential  oppo- 
sition, such  as  avarice  and  generosity,  then  to  seek 
to  give  the  basic  abstract  opposition  most  effective 
concrete  fictional  expression  by  devising  persons  to  be 
invested  with  the  traits  and  by  devising  a  course  of 
action  to  show  the  persons  in  conflict  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  traits.  Thus,  taking  the  traits  of  avarice 
and  generosity,  husband  and  wife,  for  instance,  may 
each  be  endowed  with  one,  and  a  course  of  events 
devised  to  give  the  necessary  conflict  between  them 
expression  in  action.  The  writer  of  fiction  who  will  per- 
form this  exercise  now  and  then,  as  opportunity  offers, 
not  only  will  chance  upon  much  valuable  material;  he 
also  will  acquire  a  firm  grasp  on  plot,  the  story-essence 
of  a  story,  and  will  be  led  to  realize  that  mere  compli- 


214  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

cation  or  ingenuity  is  the  least  of  a  plot.  The  exercise 
is  valuable  because  it  is  the  only  possible  way  to  exer- 
cise the  conceptive  faculty  in  detail.  A  story-idea 
gained  from  observation  usually  is  seized  as  a  whole, 
but  a  story-idea  gained  by  manipulating  human  traits 
and  motives  is  built  up  from  nothing  by  combining  its 
elements.  The  story  built  up  in  this  way  probably  will 
involve  a  social  conflict,  a  conflict  between  man  and 
man,  rather  than  between  man  and  nature  or  opposed 
traits  in  the  same  man,  because  the  opportunity  for 
combination  is  greatest  in  the  first  case. 

The  next  point  is  how  to  exercise  the  constructive 
faculty,  how  to  practice  constructive  technique,  and 
here  you  have  many  resources,  only  a  few  of  which 
need  be  mentioned. 

In  the  first  place,  you  can  study  the  ways  the 
masters  have  put  together  their  stories;  this,  though 
not  quite  practice,  is  almost  as  valuable,  if  conscien- 
tiously and  properly  done,  and  is  a  necessary  basis  for 
practice.  For  obvious  reasons  your  laboratory  anaylsis 
of  fiction  must  confine  itself  largely  to  the  short  story, 
though  you  can  go  through  the  process  mentally  and 
less  thoroughly  in  reading  longer  work. 

Provide  yourself  with  a  collection  of  short  stories 
in  one  volume  and  a  few  from  current  magazines  that 
you  think  good,  also  with  a  number  of  different  colored 
inks  or  crayons.  Read  a  story  through  a  couple  of 
times,  that  you  may  know  definitely  what  it  is,  and 
then  read  it  again  critically,  underlining  every  word, 
except  those  which  serve  only  to  forward  the  progress 
of  the  story  as  a  mere  course  of  events,  and  striking  out 
every  word  or  passage  which  seems  to  you  inessential 
to  the  whole.  Use  a  single  color  to  mark  a  single  pro- 
cess, and  neglect  the  superficial  character  of  the  words, 
whether  they  be  narrative,  descriptive,  or  serve  to 
embody  dialogue.  Thus,  dialogue  may  serve  to  forward 


APPENDIX  215 

the  progress  of  the  story  as  a  course  of  events,  in  which 
case  it  should  not  be  underlined,  may  serve  to  charac- 
terize, in  which  case  it  should  be  underlined  with  the 
color  taken  to  mark  characterization,  or  may  serve  to 
touch  in  setting,  in  which  case  it  should  be  underlined 
with  the  color  taken  to  mark  any  passage  where  the 
author  strives  to  touch  in  the  environment.  It  will 
not  be  profitable  to  be  too  minute,  to  employ  too  many 
colors;  the  matters  you  will  require  to  make  visually 
distinctive  are  not  many.  Straight  narration,  includ- 
ing the  whole  physical  progress  of  the  story,  whether 
detailed  or  general,  requires  no  color ;  characterization, 
including  the  process  of  individualizing  a  person  as  to 
his  nature,  as  to  his  appearance,  and  as  to  his  speech, 
requires  one ;  the  process  of  touching  in  setting  requires 
another;  the  process  of  preparing  a  reader  emotion- 
ally for  succeeding  events  requires  a  third;  the  pro- 
cess of  intensifying  atmosphere — if  the  story  is  of 
atmosphere — requires  a  fourth.  And  mark  each  pas- 
sage in  accordance  with  its  main  purpose  or  function, 
for  many  passages  will  subserve  more  than  one  end. 

A  number  of  stories  treated  in  this  way  will  be 
most  profitable  to  study.  In  particular,  each  one  will 
display  graphically  and  yet  in  detail  wherein  lies  its 
value  as  a  fiction,  whether  in  its  people,  in  its  events, 
or  in  its  setting,  and  will  show  plainly  the  cunning 
blending  of  elements  which  is  at  once  the  fact  and  the 
result  of  the  technique  of  construction. 

In  the  second  place,  you  can  exercise  your  faculty 
of  construction  by  closing  the  decorated  book  or  maga- 
zine and  trying  to  reproduce  two  or  three  of  the  stories 
you  have  studied.  In  doing  this  no  effort  should  be 
made  to  transcribe  from  memory;  realize,  rather,  the 
basic  theme  of  each  story,  the  general  character  of  its 
people,  and  the  main  course  of  its  events,  and  strive 
to  produce  as  effective  a  thing  from  such  materials 


216  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

as  did  the  author.  The  very  great  value  of  this  sort 
of  practice  work  lies  in  the  fact  that  you  have  a  positive 
standard  of  comparison  ready  for  your  story  when  it  is 
written.  Place  yours  and  the  original  side  by  side,  and 
you  can  see  precisely  where  you  have  failed,  if  you  feel 
that  you  have.  In  examining  your  own  work,  look  to 
the  matter  of  expression  less  than  to  the  matter  of 
construction ;  see  if  you  have  realized  the  necessity  to 
build  character  here,  to  touch  in  setting  there,  even 
if  your  attempt  to  do  so  has  failed  in  a  degree  through 
lack  of  executive  deftness. 

In  the  third  place,  the  faculty  of  construction  can 
be  exercised  in  original  work,  and  to  do  so  does  not 
necessarily  involve  writing  a  complete  story.  Ten 
stories  can  be  blocked  out  and  roughly  shaped  in  the 
time  it  would  take  to  write  one,  and  the  more  rapid 
process  is  preferable  for  the  beginner  because  it  will 
teach  him  that  the  first  conception  is  not  usually  the 
best  conception.  Write  thousand-word  outlines  of  ten 
stories  as  you  have  opportunity,  put  them  aside  for  a 
while,  and  then  see  if  you  cannot  re-shape  their  people, 
re-devise  and  re-order  their  events,  to  make  them  more 
effective,  more  interesting  fictions.  In  blocking  out 
a  story  do  not  state  happenings  merely ;  indicate  your 
people's  natures,  their  looks,  their  speech,  and  indicate 
where  you  would  touch  in  setting,  depict  character  by 
action,  speech,  or  description,  or  hint  to  a  reader  the 
emotional  quality  of  what  is  to  come. 

It  will  take  a  very  real  degree  of  courage  and 
perseverance  to  carry  out  a  course  of  practice  in  con- 
ceptive  and  constructive  technique  long  enough  to  ac- 
complish its  end.  But  if  you  will  lay  out  for  yourself 
along  the  lines  indicated  here  such  a  course  of  study 
and  practice,  and  then  will  perform  the  necessary  work, 
you  will  certainly  gain  more  insight  into  the  essential 
processes  of  fiction  than  you  can  acquire  merely  by 


APPENDIX  217 

accepting  at  face  value  such  story-ideas  as  may  come 
to  you  and  by  writing  them  out  one  after  the  other.  In 
particular,  you  will  acquire  the  faculty  to  re-mould 
and  re-shape  your  material,  instead  of  seizing  each 
idea  too  uncritically.  And  that  is  half  the  battle,  for 
it  is  precisely  the  attitude  and  habit  of  the  professional 
as  contrasted  with  the  attitude  and  habit  of  the 
amateur. 

Little  need  be  said  as  to  the  best  way  to  practice 
the  technique  of  execution.  When  you  find  or  devise 
a  story  that  you  feel  is  truly  worth  the  writing,  write 
it  as  best  you  can,  after  careful  and  directed  planning. 
You  can  also  try  to  reproduce  the  work  of  others, 
and  again  the  great  value  of  this  sort  of  practice  lies 
in  your  having  a  positive  standard  of  comparison  ready 
for  your  work  when  it  is  written.  Or  you  can  practice 
piecemeal,  if  you  have  the  necessary  enthusiasm,  can 
go  about  with  a  notebook  in  your  pocket,  as  did  Steven- 
son, and  try  to  precipitate  in  telling  words  the  casual 
impressions  that  come  to  you.  At  all  events,  write 
from  a  primary  spectacle,  whether  of  the  imagination 
or  of  actuality,  and  try  to  reproduce  something  definite 
in  your  words  rather  than  to  string  together  vociferous 
but  meaningless  phrases. 


APPENDIX  -B 
SUGGESTIONS  FOR  TEACHERS 

The  instructor  in  fiction  technique  has  my  hearty 
sympathy.  His  must  be  all  the  woes  of  manuscript 
reader,  editor,  and  friend  of  the  author  rolled  into  one. 

It  would  serve  no  purpose  to  list  here  the  inher- 
ent difficulties  of  the  business  of  teaching  the  art  of 
the  story,  such  as  that  made  by  the  fact  that  the  in- 
structor must  deal  with  a  number  of  individuals  differ- 
ing not  only  in  point  of  powers  but  in  point  of  earnest- 
ness. But  there  is  reason  to  note  one  thing.  The  aim 
of  the  course  should  not  be  academic.  It  should  not 
be  allowed  to  degenerate  into  a  course  in  the  apprecia- 
tion of  fiction,  the  most  constant  danger  to  which  lec- 
turing and  abstract  discussion  on  fiction  technique  is 
subject.  The  student  should  not  be  permitted  for  a 
moment,  even,  to  become  merely  the  appraising  con- 
noiseur  rather  than  the  humble  practitioner  of  the  art. 
Such  shifting  of  viewpoint  is  fatal. 

History  can  be  taught  piecemeal;  so  can  mathe- 
matics and  a  hundred  other  subjects;  but  the  art  of 
fiction  cannot,  even  if  it  is  teachable  at  all.  The  one 
great  secret  of  the  art  of  fiction  is  the  art  of  con- 
struction, and  it  will  profit  a  class  little  to  assign  short 
exercises  in  handling  specific  elements  of  a  story,  the 
elements  of  personality,  event,  or  setting.  The  whole 
secret  of  fiction  writing  is  to  blend  all  these  matters 
into  an  interesting  and  significant  whole,  and  the  only 

218 


APPENDIX  219 

way  to  seek  or  impart  it  is  to  construct  and  write 
or  to  require  the  class  to  construct  and  write  whole 
stories.  And  the  proper  use  of  a  text-book,  aside  from 
general  study  by  the  class  and  the  discussion  of  read- 
ing-assignments, is  for  reference  in  criticising  the 
stories  that  have  been  written  by  and  read  before  the 
class. 

The  general  aim  of  the  teacher  should  be  to  keep 
the  student  writing,  but  writing  with  an  definite  aim. 
The  simplest  sort  of  story  to  write,  of  course,  is  the 
story  of  plain  action,  and,  concomitantly  with  discus- 
sion of  plot,  it  will  be  advisable  to  outline  for  writing 
two  or  three  relatively  simple  stories.  Choose  these 
from  magazines  not  too  recent ;  give  the  class  the  main 
course  of  events,  the  people,  and  the  setting  to  work 
from ;  and  read  the  original  story  when  reading  and  dis- 
cussing the  work  of  the  class,  for  a  fixed  standard  of 
comparison  is  extremely  valuable.  As  the  course  pro- 
ceeds, more  complicated  stories  can  be  outlined  for 
reproduction,  and  from  the  first  it  will  be  useful  to  re- 
quire the  student  to  hand  in  with  the  story  he  has 
written  an  outline  of  a  story  of  the  same  general  type, 
but  original  with  himself.  After  telling  the  class  where 
they  may  find  each  story  they  have  unconsciously 
worked  upon,  state  its  chief  values  as  succintly  as  pos- 
sible, and  point  out  wherein  each  student's  work  has 
or  has  not  realized  such  values,  and  also  indicate  any 
value  in  the  class-work  not  present  in  the  original. 
Incidentally,  point  out  the  merits  and  defects  of  the 
original  outlines  handed  in  with  the  complete  stories. 
Of  course,  the  whole  business  must  be  highly  selective ; 
discuss  fully  a  little  of  the  best  work,  rather  than  say  a 
few  inadequate  words  as  to  each  student's. 

As  the  opportunity  offers,  it  will  be  advisable  to 
engage  in  oral  story-building  with  the  class.  State 
two  or  more  traits  or  motives  that  involve  a  conflict. 


220  THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 

and  then  call  upon  individuals  to  outline  a  story  present- 
ing the  dramatic  opposition.  Or  assign  for  reading  a 
particular  newspaper  of  particular  date,  and  require 
individuals  first  to  state  what  news  item  seems  to  offer 
the  best  suggestion  for  a  story  and  then  to  outline  the 
story  suggested  by  it.  This  sort  of  work  is  extremely 
valuable  in  itself  and  to  keep  the  class  from  forgetting 
that  they  are  trying  to  learn  the  secret  to  find,  develop, 
and  write  good  stories. 

Finally,  as  to  the  matter  of  original  work.  When 
the  student  is  asked  completely  to  develop  and  write  a 
story  of  his  own,  it  will  be  best  to  let  him  work  in  any 
direction  he  pleases,  rather  than  to  require  him  to 
show  some  particular  type  of  story.  The  matter  of 
type  can  be  touched  on  in  discussion.  And,  to  em- 
phasize the  importance  of  construction,  it  will  be  well 
to  require  submission  of  a  completely  developed  out- 
line of  each  story  before  writing,  also  to  discuss  and 
re-shape  these  with  the  class,  stating  their  outstanding 
values  and  weaknesses.  The  general  endeavor  should 
be  to  impress  upon  each  student  the  fact  that  the 
material  of  fiction  is  infinitely  plastic,  so  that  he 
should  shape  and  re-shape  his  conception  before  writ- 
ing until  he  is  certain  that  he  has  exhausted  its  possi- 
bilities. The  matter  of  verbal  execution  should  not  be 
given  any  great  emphasis  simply  because  it  cannot  be 
treated  in  class  with  any  great  profit.  The  instructor 
can  say  that  this  passage  is  bad  and  that  good,  hardly 
more.  But  a  poorly  constructed  story  can  be  taken 
apart  and  rearranged  more  effectively,  and  the  process 
can  be  grasped  by  the  student  because  it  is  somewhat 
mechanical.  Furthermore,  the  technique  of  fiction  and 
the  technique  of  verbal  expression  are  different  mat- 
ters, and  the  instructor  in  the  first  will  be  wise  if  he 
leaves  the  matter  of  nice  expression  to  the  instructor 


APPENDIX  221 

in  the  second.    Of  course,  obvious  verbal  crudities  in 
class  work  should  be  pointed  out. 

The  real  service  that  a  course  in  technique  can  per- 
form for  an  earnest  student  is  threefold.  It  can  lead 
him  to  realize  keenly  that  the  aim  of  fiction  is  to  inter- 
est, that  this  aim  can  be  attained  most  completely  by 
presentment  of  a  human  conflict  or  problem,  and  that 
adequate  fictional  presentment  of  such  a  conflict,  prob- 
lem, or  plot  is  to  be  achieved  only  by  a  cunning  blending 
of  the  elements  of  personality,  event,  and  setting.  That 
course  in  fiction  technique  is  the  best  course  which  does 
the  most  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  student  to  the  essen- 
tial nature  of  the  art  and  most  definitely  shows  him 
the  matters  he  must  bear  in  mind  in  putting  together  a 
story.  If  he  leaves  the  hands  of  the  instructor  with  a 
knowledge  of  the  fundamentals  of  construction,  the 
instructor  will  have  done  well. 


APPENDIX  C 
TO  WRITE  A  STORY 

CONCEPTIVE  TECHNIQUE 

(1)  Find  your  story,  a  fiction  exhibiting  personality  in  conflict 

with  its  environment,  with  another  personality,  or  with 
itself. 

(2)  Realize  precisely  what  constitutes  the  plot — what  opposi- 

tion between  what  forces  of  personality  or  nature  is  the 
influence  which  gives  fictional  significance  to  the  sequence 
of  incidents  or  events  that  have  first  come  to  mind  as 
the  story. 

(3)  Realize  the  characters,  major  and  minor;  that  is,  discover 

just  what  attributes  of  theirs  must  be  developed  by  direct 
statement  or  by  inference  from  action  in  order  to  give 
the  plot  an  adequate,  concrete,  specific  presentment. 

(4)  Having  grasped  the  plot,  the  essence  of  the  story,  and  al\ 

its  implications,  and  having  realized  the  individual  people 
who  alone  can  present  it  convincingly,  scrutinize  closely 
the  events  of  the  story,  as  they  first  were  conceived,  to 
discover  whether  their  rearrangement  or  entire  change 
may  not  result  in  a  combination  presenting  the  plot  more 
adequately  and  more  forcefully  than  the  combination  that 

first  suggested  the  plot. 

(5)  Having  blocked  out  the  fiction  thus,  consider  and  determine 

from  whose  viewpoint  it  may  best  be  told. 

CONSTRUCTIVE  TECHNIQUE 

(1)  Arrange  the  significant  events  of  the  story  in  sequence  with 
a  due  but  not  forced  regard  to  the  necessities  of  climax, 
that  is,  increasing  tensity  of  the  plot-struggle. 

222 


APPENDIX  «23 

(2)  Consider  how  best  to  link  together  the  major  happenings, 

and  endeavor  to  devise  and  manipulate  the  minor  events 
so  that  they  may  serve  a  double  purpose,  first,  to  lead 
from  major  event  to  major  event,  second,  to  develop  tht 
characters;  remember  that  a  story  is  a  physical  present 
ment  of  a  spiritual  thing,  the  plot-struggle,  and  that  per- 
sonality should  function  in  the  small  as  well  as  in  the 
great  events. 

(3)  Determine  precisely  the  ending  toward  which  to  work,  and 

let  it  coincide  with  the  termination  of  the  plot-struggle. 

(4)  Apportion  the  length  of  the  story  among  its  several  hap- 

penings, those  main  events  which  give  physical  present- 
ment to  the  plot  and  so  incidentally  develop  or  exhibit 
character,  and  those  minor  events  which  only  develop 
character  or  merely  aid  the  physical  progress  of  the  story. 

EXECUTIVE   TECHNIQUE 

(1)  Determine  the  style   or  manner  of  writing  for  which  the 

story  calls,  and  maintain  it  when  once  pitched  upon. 

(2)  Write  vividly  only  -where  emphasis  is  called    for    by    the 

event;  do  not  be  afraid  to  narrate  in  general  terms  where 
the  story  does  not  call  for  detail;  and  think  less  of  the 
word  than  of  the  thing  you  visualize.  Let  the  story  flow 
before  your  eye  and  sound  in  your  ear  as  to  an  actual 
observer  or  listener;  transcribe  only  what  he  would  see, 
hear,  smell  or  think  under  the  influence  of  the  particular 
circumstances. 

(3)  Avoid  all    artificialities,  in   description,  in  the    speech  of 

characters,  even  in  their  names  and  in  the  undue  repeti- 
tion of  verbs  of  utterance — "he  said,"  "she  said." 

(4)  Re-write,  or  touch  up  in  manuscript. 

(5)  After  a  week  or  more,  when  other  matters  have  shaken  the 

mind  from  the  ruts  it  has  worn  for  itself  in  planning  and 
writing  the  story,  re-read  it  critically  to  discover  whether 
it  is  worth-while  and  whether  it  cannot  be  improved. 


INDEX 


Action  105,  139,  146,  148. 
Action,    in    novel    and    short 

story  190. 
Adventure  32. 
Alice  in  Wonderland  203. 
Almayer's  Folly  16;,  163. 
Anna  Karenina  192,  195. 
Artificiality  85. 
Artistry  99,  187,  188,  206. 
Atmosphere 

Definition  152. 

Atmospheric  value  154. 

Tone  of  story  156. 

Preparation  for  climax  156. 

Examples  158,  159. 

Story  of  atmosphere  160. 

Short  story  161. 

Setting  161. 

Dramatic  value  164. 
Atmosphere,     short     story     of 

166,  168. 

Atmosphere,  story  of  45. 
Atmosphere,  style  of  story  of 

93. 

Anglo-Saxon  130. 
Austen,  Jane  94,  182,  189. 


Balzac,  Honore  de  54,  88,  98 

114. 
Best    Short    Stories    of    1915, 

The  76. 
Brevity,    of    short    story    178, 

179. 


Bronte,  Emily  94. 
Brown,  Alice  154. 
Burnett,  Frances  H.  152. 


Call  of  the  Wild,  The  198. 
Carroll,  Lewis,  203. 
Cask  of  Amontillado,  The  168. 
Cervantes  208. 
Character  35,  36. 
Characterization  74,  128. 
Three  modes,  136. 
Dialogue  136. 
Action  136. 

Description   or  direct   state- 
ment 136. 
Aims      of      characterization 

^38. 
To   show   nature   of   person 

138. 

To  show  appearance  138. 
Character  and  plot  139. 
Characterization    by    speech 

140. 

Characterization    by    state- 
ment 144. 
Characterization    by    action 

147. 

Characterization  in  novel  190. 
Characterization       in       short 

story  172,  173. 
Character  sketch  39. 
Character  story  40. 


225 


226 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 


Character,    style    of    story    of 

93. 

Classes,  speech  of  143. 
Clearness,  in  description   119. 
Climax  50,  57,  157. 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  The 

191. 

Coherence,  of  novel  190. 
Coherence,  of  short  story  179. 
Color  119. 

Commonplace,  story  of  97. 
Complication,    as    element    of 

plot  51. 

Complication,  story  of  42. 
Compression  44,  169,  181. 
Condescension  30. 
Conrad,  Joseph  161,  162. 
Conservatism,      portrayal      of 

26. 

Construction  16,  64. 
Conte  43. 
Contrast  123,  157. 
Copperfield,    David    117,    191, 

192. 

Cousin  Pons  54,  55. 
Creative  process,  order  37. 
Crime  and  Punishment  32. 
Critical  faculty  23. 
Criticism  34. 
Culture  35. 
Current  Questions  25. 

Dawn    of    a    Tomorrow,    The 

152. 

Defoe,  Daniel  98,  208. 
Descent   into   the    Maelstrom, 

A  84. 
Description  105. 

Interest  107. 

Secondary  function  108. 

Distribution  108. 

Story  of  atmosphere  109. 

Effectiveness  109. 

Description  of  persons  110. 


Example  111. 

Analysis  112. 

Accuracy  114. 

Mechanical  limitations   116. 

Use  of  all  senses  117. 

Description  of  setting  118. 

Two  objects  119. 

Use  of  all  senses  120. 

Order  of  details  122. 

Contrast  123. 
Design,  importance  of  13. 
Dialect,  127,  128. 
Dialogue     (see     Speech)     105, 

136. 

Dialogue,  in  relation  to  char- 
acterization 140. 
Dickens,   Charles  28,  92,   117, 

141,  142,  191,  192,  193. 
Diction  102,  130,  131. 
Don  Quixote  208. 
Dostoievsky,   Fyodor  32,  203, 

208. 

Douglas,  George  58,  94. 
Doyle,  Sir  A.  Conan  83,  204. 
Drama,  conventions  of  170. 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  56, 

182,  200. 

Dumas,  Alexandre  31,  92. 
Dunn,      Finley      Peter      (Mr. 

Dooley)  134. 

Ebb-Tide,  The  82,  89,  91,  145, 

149,  188,  191,  192. 
Elements,     blending     of     105, 

106. 

Eliot,  George  31,  88. 
Emotion  25. 

Emphasis  39,  40,  77,  101,  110. 
End  of  story  72. 
Events,  order  of  65. 
Events,  secondary  103. 
Exposition  85. 

Fall   of  the   House   of   Usher, 
The  44,  161,  162,  167,  207. 


INDEX 


227 


Fantasy,    influence    on    style 

92,  93. 

Fiction,  theory  of  197. 
Fielding,  Henry  28,  192. 
Figures    of    speech    100,    114, 

115. 

Flaubert,  Gustave  27. 
Frankenstein  189. 
Freeman,    Mary    E.    Wilkins 

154. 

Galsworthy,  John  88. 
Genius,  cultivation  of  23. 
Greek  130. 

Hardy,  Thomas  88,  161. 

Harrison,   Henry   Sydnor   133. 

Harte,  Bret  53,  59. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel  29,  32, 
58,  92,  93,  182,  203,  204. 

Henry,  O.  82. 

House  of  the  Dead,  The  58, 
203. 

House  with  the  Green  Shut- 
ters, The  58,  94. 

Hurst,  Fannie  76. 

Hugo,  Victor  28,  52,  109,  192, 
204. 

Idiot,  The  208. 

II  Penseroso  94. 

Imagination  29. 

Imagination  and  dialogue  129. 

Imitation  33. 

Information  24.  * 

Interest  34,  35,  107,  108,  176, 

185,  203. 
Introduction  67,  81,  82. 

James,  Henry  56. 
Jean  Christophe  28,  192. 
Journal    of   the   Plague   Year, 
A  98. 

Kidnapped  53,  96. 
Kipling,   Rudyard  44,   68,   82, 
99,  120,  198. 


L'Allegro  94. 

La  Peau  de  Chagrin  98. 

Latin  130. 

Legeia  167. 

Length  86. 

Les  Miserables  28,  192,  204. 

Literalness,    in    dialogue    126, 

127. 
Lodging  for  the  Night,  A  110, 

137,  174,  175. 
London,  Jack  71,  75,  198. 
Lost  World,  The  204. 

Macbeth  157. 

Mannerisms   in   dialogue    143, 

144. 
Markheim  44,  55,  56,  159,  169, 

179. 

Master  of  Ballantrae,  The  91. 
Material,  accessibility  of  22. 
Matter,  choice  of 

Selection  30. 

Sincerity  31. 

Adventure  32. 

Common  problems  32. 

Originality  33. 

Novelty  and  worth  33. 

Elements  of  literature  34. 

Interest  34. 

Elements  of  interest  35. 
Matter,  significance  of  205. 
Maupassant,  Guy  de  44,  105, 

168. 

Meredith,  George  92. 
Merry  Men,  The  153,  155,  161, 

162. 

Milton,  John  94. 
Monsieur  Beaucaire  71. 

Narration  105,   106,  107,  136, 
147. 

Narration,    constructive    tech- 
nique of 
Importance  64. 
Plot  and  situation  65. 


228 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 


Spiritual  values  66. 

Order  of  events  67. 

Introduction  67. 

Primary       and       secondary 
events  68. 

Climax  70. 

Naturalness  70. 

Preparation  70,  73. 

End  of  story  72. 

Proportion  76. 

General    Considerations    78. 
Narration,       executive      tech- 
nique of 

Mode  of  narration  80. 

First  person  narration  81. 

Variation  81. 

Advantages  of  mode  81. 

Disadvantages  82. 

Plausibility  84. 

Third  person  narration  84. 

Advantages  84. 

Avoidance      of      artificiality 
85. 

Length  86. 

Viewpoint  86. 

Attitude  of  author  88. 

Style  90. 

Congruity  of  manner  92. 

Story  of  action  92. 

Story  of  character  93. 

Method  of  narration  97. 

Story  of  commonplace  97. 

Story  of  bizarre  98. 

Vividness  98. 

Suspense  100. 

Emphasis    and     suppression 
101. 

Expansion      and      vividness 
101. 

Primary       and       secondary 
events  102. 

Transition  104. 

Blending  of  elements  105. 
Naturalness  143. 
Naturalness  of  dialogue  126. 


Nature,   conflict  with   as  plot 

52. 

Necklace,  The  105,  168. 
New  Arabian  Nights,  The  91, 

93. 

New  England  154,  155. 
Note  on  Realism,  A  13,  90,  91. 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris  109. 
Novel  38,  54,  87. 

Novel  and  romance  182. 

Romanticism     and     realism 
183. 

Technique  of  forms  185. 

Incoherence  of  novel  186. 

Novel   as   medium   for   self- 
expression  186. 

Interpolation     of     comment 
187. 

Simplicity  188. 

Inclusiveness  of  novel  190. 

Personality  190. 

Action  191. 

Length  191. 

Initial  idea  192. 

Singleness  of  story  193. 

Social  emphasis  196. 
Novelty  33. 

Observation  24. 
Our  Mutual  Friend,  192,  193. 
Outcasts   of   Poker   Flat,   The 
53,  59. 

Personality  198. 

Persons,  description  of  110. 

Philosophy     of     Composition, 

The  167. 

Philosophy  of  fiction  202. 
Pickwick  Papers,  The  92,  193. 
Plausibility  68,  69,  103. 
Plot   139,   148,   189,   197,   207, 

208. 

Definition  48,  50. 

Character  and  plot  49. 

Dramatic  value  50. 


INDEX 


229 


Complication  51. 

Interest  51. 

Plot  as  problem  52. 

Three  basic  themes  52. 

Conflict    between    man    and 
nature  52. 

Conflict    between    man    and 
man  54. 

Conflict  within  the  man  55. 

Arrangement  56. 

Climax  57. 

Major  situations  60. 

Climax  and  plot  61. 

Situation  61. 

Plot  for  short  story  168,  169. 
Poe,   Edgar  Allan  44,   51,   84, 

93,  161,  162,  167,  168,  169, 

170,  180,  207. 
Point  of  view  86,  116. 
Polti,  Georges  62. 
Practice  96. 
Prejudice  26. 
Preparation  73. 

Preparation  of  reader  for  cli- 
max 156. 

Pride  and  Prejudice  189. 
Problem  in  fiction  52. 
Problem  novel  187. 
Problem,  story  or  plot  as  50. 
Proportion  76,  102. 
Provincialism  26. 
Psychological  story  55. 

Reade,  Charles  191. 
Reading  26. 
Realism  182,  189,  199. 
Reporting  and  literature  45. 
Return    of    the    Native,    The 

161. 

Rhetoric  95,  109,  110. 
Richardson,  Samuel  86. 
Robinson,  Crusoe  98,  208. 
Rolland,  Remain  28,  192. 
Romance  182. 
Romanticism  182,  199. 


Scarlet  Letter,  The  29,  32,  92, 

182,  203,  204. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter  52,  88. 
Sea-Wolf,  The  71,  75,  76. 
Selection  22. 
Self-culture  24. 
Sense  and  Sensibility  182. 
Senses,     employment     in     de- 
scription 117,  120,  121. 
Seriousness  31. 
Setting  152. 

Setting,  description  of  118. 
Sex  33. 

Shakespeare,  William  157. 
Ship     That     Found     Herself, 

The  198. 
Short  story,  18,  38,  43,  87,  193. 

Definition  165. 

Two  types  166. 

Dramatic  short  story  166. 

Atmospheric      short      story 
166. 

Origins  167. 

Unity  and  singleness  of  ef- 
fect 168. 

General  technique  172. 

Characterization  172. 

Interest  and  simplicity  176. 

Complexity  177. 

Coherence  179. 

Compression  181. 
Significance  of  matter  205. 
Simplicity  188. 
Simplicity    of    plot    for    short 

story  176. 
Sincerity  31. 
Situation  (see  Plot). 
Situation  and  dialogue  128. 
Social  question  26. 
Speech  105. 

Potency  124. 

Mechanical  distribution 
125. 

Naturalness  126. 

Direction  126. 


230 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  FICTION  WRITING 


Dialect  127. 

Situation  128. 

Resources  to  meet  demands 
of  situation  130. 

Style  132. 

Verbs  of  utterance  133. 

Speech    for    its    own    sake 
134. 

Creative  process  135. 
Spelling  in  dialogue  143. 
Stage,  conventions  of  170. 
Stevenson,    Robert    Louis    13, 

39,  44,   52,   53,   55,   56,   82, 

89,  90,  93,  96,  99,  110,  137, 

139,  144,  145,  149,  153,  155, 

158,  161,  162,  169,  174,  179, 

182,  188,  191,  192,  200. 
Story  types  165,  166. 

Conception     and     execution 
37. 

Utility  to  know  types  38. 

Novel  and  romance  38. 

Short  story  38. 

The  three  types  39. 

Emphasis  39. 

Three  elements  of  story  39. 

Character  40. 

Incident  42. 

Atmosphere  45. 

Other  types  46. 

Short    Story    and    compres- 
sion 44. 
Story,  distinguished  from  tale 

49. 

Story,  ways  to  create  39. 
Style  82,  90,  97,  137. 
Suppression  101. 
Suspense  100,  101. 
Sympathy  88,  148,  149. 

Tale  39,  43,  49,  165,  207. 
Tanglewood  Tales  93. 
Tarkington,  Booth  71. 
T.  B.  76. 

Technique,    natural    approach 
to  16. 


Technique,  object  of  51. 
Thackeray,      William      Make- 
peace 28,  54,  58,   187,   191, 

192. 

Thematic  story  40. 
Theory  of  fiction 

Story  and  tale  197. 

Realism  the  method  199. 

Realism   the  artistic  dogma 
199. 

Short  story  200. 

Interest  201. 

Power   of   real   problems   of 
life  203. 

Test  of  merit  204. 

Aim    of    executive    artistry 
206. 

Verisimilitude  207. 

Significance  of  plot  208. 
Thirty-Six      Dramatic     Situa- 
tions, The  62. 
Thrawn  Janet  158. 
Toilers  of  the  Sea,  The  52. 
Tolstoi,  Leo  192,  195. 
Tom  Jones,  28,  192. 
Tone  82,  132. 
Tragedy  157. 
Transition  103,  104,  105. 
Trollope,  Anthony  182. 
Turgenieff,  Ivan  146. 

Ugliness  89. 

Unities,  dramatic  168. 

Unity  of  short  story  201. 

Vanity  Fair,  54,  58,  187. 
Verisimilitude     84,     92,     106, 

107,  115,  118,  119,  120,  123, 

143,  207. 
Verne,  Jules  204. 
Victorian  novelists  191. 
Viewpoint  86,  116. 
Virginians,  The  191,  192. 
Vividness    98,    101,    110,    114, 

119. 
V.  V.'s  Eyes  134. 


INDEX 


231 


War  and  Peace  192. 
Warden,  The  182. 
Weir  of  Hermiston  91. 
Wells,  H.  G.  204. 
Wit,  in  dialogue  127. 
Without     Benefit     of 

44,  68,  120. 
Worth  of  matter  33. 
Writer  of  fiction. 

Critical  faculty  22. 


Clergy 


Cultivation   of  genius  23. 

Observation     and     informa- 
tion 24. 

Open-mindedness  25. 

Attitude  toward  life  25. 

Prejudice  and  provincial- 
ism 26. 

Social  question  26. 

Reading  26. 

Imagination  29. 
Wutherine  Heights  94. 


RETURN    CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
TO—"*    202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling        642-3405 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

AUTO  DISC  CIRC  ntf 

/k  TQ° 

s  t  j,j 

JON  Z  0  199E 

FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


®s 


16616 

LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


600061.1340 


M188402 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


